


Death Is Buffy's  Next Big Adventure

by Sharie1



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV), Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Buffy the Vampire Slayer References, Dimension Travel, Eventual Romance, F/M, Hogwarts, Love, Male-Female Friendship, Ministry of Magic (Harry Potter), Possessive Behavior, Real Family, Time Travel, Vampires, Wizarding Wars (Harry Potter), Wizarding World (Harry Potter), Wool's Orphanage (Harry Potter), World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-14 04:49:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 33
Words: 101,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28789770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sharie1/pseuds/Sharie1
Summary: After her jump from the tower in The Gift, Buffy Summers wakes up to find she is 15 years old, it's 1942, and she has amnesia. Her only know relative (Joyce Summers) is in hospital after a Grindelwald attack and Buffy is sent to a London orphanage.There she meets a mysterious boy who is seeking information on his own parentage.Buffy learns that there is more than one war raging, there is a magical one as well. How does she fit in that world? Who are her family? Why are people keeping secrets from her? Why is a dark wizard chasing her? Who is Grindelwald? What's a boggart doing living in her closet? And most of all, can she trust her new friend Tom Riddle?
Relationships: Tom Riddle/Buffy Summers
Comments: 155
Kudos: 111





	1. The Other Buffy

The Worlds At WarDisclaimer. Harry Potter and the Fantastic Beasts series are written by JK Rowling and Buffy The Vampire Slayer by Josh Wheedon or whoever now owns the rights. This story is written with no financial gain, it is my homage to those superb writers.

…..

A/N; (The Boring stuff)

This is a crossover so obviously AU.

Okay, I've had a Harry Potter/wizarding fic bumping about in my head for a while now. I've been too busy with Non-Mixy to even consider doing the research this one needs. Then, when I became ill in August the only way to get Musey to play was by letting her throw down a few chapters of this story.

I have not seen many Buffy and Tom Riddle/Grindlewald era stories. Lots of great Harry Potter and Buffy ones about but nothing similar to what I have in mind. So...

Reviews and feedback are wonderful and the lifeblood of any fanfic writer. If no one seems interested, I will think its poo and abandon (or post only on a private writers group that I'm a member of). Constructive criticism is very welcome. Flamers and trolls will be thanked for bumping my review count up but otherwise ignored.

Anyway, if I make any mistakes, put it down to the fact that no one pays me to write and I can't afford to hire my own research team. Drop me a private message or review and I will try to fix it.

No beta on this one yet. If you are interested, please let me know.

…..................

Full Summary: -

'Death is but the next great adventure...' Dumbledore

Buffy Summers wakes up buried, with no memory of who she is, in 1942. If that's not bad enough, she's sent to a London orphanage, there are people out to get her, a wizard called Grindelwald is causing trouble and the world is at war. Both worlds, the wizarding and the muggle one.  
So who exactly is Buffy Summers and who can she trust?

Joyce and Buffy Summers, Tom Riddle, Gellert Grindelwald, and Albus Dumbledore.

On with the story...

…...............

Chapter One. ~Prologue

…...............

The Wizarding World -1942

The last person the Aurors expected to see when out on a routine call was a notorious dark wizard.

“I'm not believing what I'm seeing,” Clogg said. One of the most wanted men in the wizarding world was sauntering down a Muggle high street in broad daylight. It was as if the man hadn't a care in the world. “Isn't that...”

“...Hubert Von Kendrick,” Moody finished the sentence. Moody's young face brightened with excitement. This was the reason he'd joined the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. He wanted to apprehend the darkest of dark wizards and catch notorious criminals. It wasn't to traipse around Muggle London looking witches who'd got into a fight and hexed each other over the last pair of shoes in a Muggle shop.

The two Aurors followed Von Kendrick down into the underground. There they followed the wizard onto a train, watching him discreetly from another carriage as he took an empty seat amongst unsuspecting Muggles. He alighted at St Pancras, and the two followed him, staying well back and pretending to read a Bovril poster on the station wall.

“He's following the two women,” Moody muttered, covering his face with the Muggle paper he'd just found discarded on a nearby bench. “Those two blondes over there.” His eyes flicked across to where the mother and teenage daughter were waiting to hand in their tickets to the guard.

Clogg nodded, pretending to check a timetable.

“You think one of us should go back to the Ministry and ask them for reinforcements?” Moody asked a bit reluctantly. He knew as the younger and least experienced he should volunteer, but Clogg wasn't the brightest wizard in the department. He felt torn, wanting to stay and yet knowing they shouldn't risk letting the dark Wizard slip through their fingers.

“Another few minutes won't hurt,” said Clogg, “and then we'll get another team to follow him. I must say, I'm curious why he's so interested in those two and what he's planning.”

They left the station. The woman and her daughter walking down the road before veering off into a side street and then entering a busy department store. Von Kendrick followed them. At the shop door, he hesitated, seemingly in two minds whether to enter or not. After a few seconds, he opened the door and followed them inside.

Inside, Buffy wandered over to the perfume counter whilst her mother waited in line to pay for a pair of gloves. The assistant at the counter was busy serving an old lady who wore an expensive fur coat and dithered over the choice of two small bottles of perfume. Buffy took a bottle of Evening In Paris from off the counter and held it to her nose. The smell was too strong for her and she put it back down hurriedly. Spotting a make-up counter only a few aisles away, she wandered over, running her eye over what was available - less than impressed with the slim pickings.

Buffy knew that wartime rationing was hitting Briton far harder than America. Europe had been fighting for a lot longer and everything she liked to buy back home was in short supply here. In fact, even if you had the money and the goods were in front of you, you still needed government-issued 'points' to purchase them. Both Buffy and her Mom had been provided with ration books (as well as a gas mask each) on arriving in England and Joyce had warned Buffy not to spend on non-essentials. Buffy wasn't sure if that was because her Mom was having problems working out the British points system or if she was worried how long their money was going to last.

There was a large mirror on the counter and Buffy stopped in front of it. Angling it towards her so that she could check her hair, a man's face in the reflection caught her eye. He was a dark, swarthy man with large jowls and he was stood by the scarf counter behind her. She watched him as he pretending to look through a rack of scarves, his eyes on her. The way he was looking at her made her skin crawl. She'd seen him earlier on the underground and he'd been watching her then. Was he following her?

She primped her hair, all the while watching him. He was giving her the creeps. She glanced over to where her Mom was, then back to the mirror and breathed a sigh of relief to see that he'd gone. Maybe he'd become bored of ogling her and gone to annoy someone more his own age. Putting the weird guy from her mind, Buffy continued browsing the make-up until the assistant came over, a fake smile on her red lips.

“Would you like to make a purchase, Miss?”

“Just browsing,” Buffy replied, flashing her a smile.

The assistant's polite expression vanished, to be replaced by something less pleasant. “In that case, shoo!”

With a huff of indignation, Buffy abruptly turned and collided into someone's chest.

Instantly she was apologetic. “Gee, I'm really sorry about that. I wasn't looking where I was going.”

The man had grabbed her arm as if to steady her and when Buffy looked up she was shocked to see the swarthy man who'd been watching her.

He leaned in close, saying in a gruff whisper, “I vant you to come vith me.” His eyes flicked about the store, making sure no one was watching them. “Come now. Do not make a fuss.”

“Get off me!” Buffy yelped, trying to twist her arm out of his grip.

The man tightened his hold on her and jabbed something pointed into her side. Buffy froze. Did he have a gun? She looked down and saw... he was pressing a stick into her side. A stick?!

“Go away!” she yelled. “I don't know you! Dirty creep! Get away from me.”

As she'd hoped, her shouts drew attention. People were looking over, trying to work out what was happening and wondering if they should ask. Over at the glove counter, Joyce Summers peered between passing shoppers trying to see what was going on.

“I don't vant to use this here, but I vill,” the swarthy man hissed. “Come vith me or I shall kill your mother.”

“What you gonna do? Wave your twig at her?” Buffy tugged her arm trying to free it and, at the same time, the make-up sales assistant inadvertently came to her rescue.

“May I help you, Sir?” The counter assistant asked, glaring at Buffy as if it was her fault for being grabbed.

The question confused the swarthy man. “You vant to help m-?”

“Hubert Von Kendrick!” The shout came from the back of the store and the swarthy man swung in the direction of the caller.

The moment Buffy felt Von Kendrick's hold slacken, she pulled away and darted behind a nearby sales counter. The assistant who usually manned it was nowhere to be seen. Buffy wondered if she'd gone for the manager, intending to have her removed from the premises for being a trouble maker. Ducking down, she peered through a gap in the counters just in time to see the swarthy man raising his twig and shouting in a foreign language.

Bright blue light flashed.

Buffy dropped instinctively to the floor as, on the far side of the store, a rack of evening shoes was thrown over as Clogg deflected a hex.

Meanwhile, Alastor Moody had discreetly waved his wand and uttered the words, “Fumos Duo.” Thick smoke began to billow from his wand and drifted around the store.

“FIRE!” Moody bellowed, knowing that this was the safest and easiest way to clear an area of Muggles. “Fire! Possibly a bomb! Everyone needs to leave the building!”

A shield of blue light is almost permanently around Clogg as spell after spell was cast at him. Another spell ricocheted off the Auror's shield. It hit a shop display with a loud bang, and a shower of hats, glass shards, and splinters of wood flew through the air, hitting all those within range.

All around the store shoppers and staff began screaming. There was the sound of stampeding feet as the shoppers and shop workers alike began running for the exits. A fat man in a suit jostled Clogg, knocking him into the side of a wooden counter. Clogg stumbled and then was knocked yet again. A tiny granny carrying a long umbrella slammed it between the Auror's legs. Clogg fell awkwardly, landing heavily on his arm.

The fall saved him. It meant the Crucio curse, Von Kendrick had cast at him missed him completely. The woman who'd just ran in front of him wasn't as lucky. She fell to the ground, her body writhing as pain ripped through every nerve in her body. Her agonized screams causing near hysteria in those jammed in the doorways as they desperately clawed to escape into the street.

An elderly man and his wife took cover behind the same counter as Buffy. Over by the glove counter, Joyce was fighting against the surging crowd, being pushed further and further away from her daughter.

“Buffy! Get out of here!” Joyce yelled, trying to elbow her way against the tide of people.

Von Kendrick's wand waved in her direction and Joyce was hit by a spell that knocked her off her feet. She and a thin woman wearing tiny spectacles simultaneously tumble to the floor. The thin woman began crawling away on all fours. Joyce, her legs shaky, attempted to stand and yet another dark spell hit her. She fell once more, rolling behind the counter and out of Buffy's sight.

Von Kendrick's wand swirled in almost non-stop motion. Angry at how fast the situation has escalated, he's not only shouting hexes at the two Aurors but any Muggle who's in his way. Those he isn't hexing he's using them as cover, casting from behind them and even using a Flipendo on a counter assistant, sending her at Moody. The young Auror had to jump to one side to avoid the woman colliding into him.

On the same aisle as Clogg, Von Kendrick's Incendio spell set a young child's clothing alight. The toddler's high-pitched screams and his mother's frantic cries as she attempted to put out the fire with her hands only added to the hellish nightmare. Unwilling to watch a child in pain Clogg instantly summoned water and put out the flames. He knows the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes won't be thanking him for his intervention. The woman and her child will be two more Muggles who will need obliviating.

Buffy, still cowering behind her counter with her eyes closed, smells burning flesh from close by her. At the other side of the counter, she sees that the old man who's taken shelter with her is lying on the floor. He'd sent his wife to the door first, and although she'd made it out safely, he wasn't as lucky. The entire left-hand side of his body is burnt almost to the bone. His cataract grey eyes gaze at Buffy. An expression of pain and horror on his face before the light dies in his eyes.

Buffy recoiled, it's the first time she's seen anyone die and it isn't something she'll forget. She can hear the mad man, Von Kendrick, in the aisle hurling curses at people and knows she can't stay where she is. Her Mom told her to leave, but that means having to crawl over the dead man's body to get to the door. Buffy wonders if her Mom is injured or if she's hiding behind the counter, waiting until the police arrive. She's no intention of leaving without her.

Strange lights are flashing all around her. Buffy has no idea how they've gotten caught up in all this, they'd only come in here to shop.

“Moody, the Ministry!” Clogg shouts to his partner. Moody is apparating around the store, throwing spell after spell at the dark wizard from different directions, so far nothing is breaking through Von Kendrick's defences.

Clogg's shout alerts Von Kendrick to his new hiding place, and a Reducio spell hits the counter in front of him.

“Expelliarmus, Protego,” Clogg casts both spells seamlessly. One to, hopefully, disarm the dark wizard and the other to shield him from the next spell until he finds a new hiding place. Holding his broken arm against him, he rolled away, biting back a cry of pain as he accidentally knocked it. If Moody realised that he'd been injured, he won't leave and get help.

Moody still not realising his partner is hurt casts another Fumosto to hide his departure.

By now the shop had virtually emptied. Smoke hung in the air, dead or dying Muggles lay on the floor, and Von Kendrick stalked the aisles towards Clogg.

Buffy, seeing Von Kendrick's distraction, used the opportunity to bolt across the aisle to her Mom. As she ran past the place where Moody apparated from, Von Kendrick sees the flash of a blonde head from the corner of his eye. He assumed the young Auror was back again.

“Avada Kedavra!”

Green lightning crackled out from his wand. The stream hit Buffy in the centre of her back, she twisted and then her body slumped to the ground.

Von Kendrick swore. Turning back, he caught sight of Clogg peeking from his hiding place - revealing his position. The dark wizard snarled, charging the Auror, wand swirling as curse after curse was sent at the Auror. Clogg, already dizzy with pain from his arm, fought desperately to hold him off until help arrived.

Finally, Clogg's wand was yanked away by an Expelliarmus that sent it flying into the far wall.

“Avada Kedavra!” Green light flashed once again and Clogg fell.

Hubert Von Kendrick, dark wizard and a favourite of Gellert Grindelwald, moved quickly to where Buffy lay and gently lifted the young girl's head onto his lap. His fingers trembled as he pressed themagainst her throat checking for a pulse. But he knew it was no use. The powerful killing curse had done the job it was cast to do, and his months of careful research have been wasted in one moment of battle rage.

Knowing the Aurors would arrive at any moment, he placed her back on the ground and rose to his feet. He took out his wand and cast one last spell before apparating away.

Behind him, the ground rumbled and the walls of the building began to collapse inward, to bury those within.

…...............


	2. Rise Like a Phoenix from The Ashes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Willow tries to resurrect Buffy but the snake intervenes and sends the soul to another dimension's Buffy.

Sunnydale - The Present day

~The Urn Of Osiris~

At the grave of Buffy Summers, a ritual was in progress.

“Osiris, Keeper of the Gate, Master of All Fate, hear us,” Willow called, as she knelt at the graveside, her face anointed with blood. “Accept our offering. Know our prayers.”

The air hummed with powerful magic as Willow stretched out her arms. “Osiris,” she entreated, “here lies the warrior of the people! LET HER CROSS OVER!!”

Beneath the skin on Willow's arms, something began to bubble. It slithered along, making its way across her chest and then slowly creeping up to her throat. Willow choked and heaved. She opened her mouth, retched once more, and from her mouth the head of a snake appeared. The snake hissed, its black eyes glinting in the candlelight as it looked over at Buffy's friends and then at the grave below it. Willow heaved again and it slithered from her mouth, dropping to the ground.  
The snake now gone, Willow sat back up to continue the ceremony, orange magic swirling around her like flames as she called on the god Osiris to allow Buffy to cross.

No one had noticed the snake as it weaved its own magic across the grave. Buffy's friends were far too focussed on the ceremony and then the demons who later turned up to disrupt it.

And the snake? It had waited until the witch declared the ritual to be a failure before slithering off into the night. The snake knew the Slayer's resurrection hadn't failed. Buffy's soul had indeed crossed over. Crossed over to another dimension.

….................................

Muggle London. July, 1942 ~

Magic swirled around and through Buffy's body. Her heart started to beat, and she sucked in a huge lungful of air as her body began to function once more.

Buffy pressed a hand to her head and groaned. As if waking from a deep sleep, she rolled over onto her side, a move she instantly regretted as her head began to pound. There was also something hard digging into her cheek. It felt suspiciously like a rock. Unwilling to face reality just yet, Buffy kept her eyes tightly closed and patted the object next to her face. 'Hmm,' she thought sleepily, that confirmed it - there was a rock in her bed.

Reluctantly she opened her eyes, to see nothing but darkness and with it the sure knowledge she isn't in her bedroom. It feels more confined; it feels like she's in a small narrow space underground– almost as if she's in a coffin. There's an ominous creaking of wood from above her and a trickle of dust drops down onto her face. Buffy quickly shuts her eyes to stop grit going into them.

At least she knows she isn't dead. The dead don't blink.

A voice inside her snaps, 'Oh, come on! The undead do more than blink. Wake up and smell the coffee!'

She starts coughing. Hard, racking coughs, each one jolting her still tender body. A spasm of pain makes her whimper. Once the coughing fit is over, she lies very still and finds that it helps. Inside her body, the Slayer's enhanced healing ability is sending endorphins to her cells to numb the pain. Willow's magic removes the last traces of spells from her body and like a caterpillar, she changes into something new.

As she waits for her body to regain strength, she wonders how she came to be underground. Was she in an accident? Will someone be out looking for her?

Images flash through her mind. There's an older man with glasses, the pout of a teenage girl with dark hair, a slightly older red-haired girl, and a dark-haired boy with a goofy smile. Their faces are so familiar, but their names... she can't remember their names.

“Think, Buffy. Think!” Her mouth and throat are dry and her voice sounds croaky. Why can't she remember? If she runs out of oxygen, she'll suffocate. Panic starts to spiral out of control. Knowing it won't help her, she takes deep breaths until her heart rate settle down.

Her name's Buffy.

She knows her name, the rest will come back to her.

'You need out of here,' instructs the inner voice. 'Once you're out, find some place you recognise and take it from there.'

Rolling onto her back, Buffy tests the space around her. To the sides her fingers trail over brickwork; above her, maybe a foot to eighteen inches is a smooth plank of wood. There is a strong smell of concrete and she can taste sand and dust. Is she under the floor?

“I think a building has fell on me.” Her heart begins to race again.

“Help!” No one is going to hear such a weak and pitiful shout. Buffy bashes the wood above her head with her hands. When it doesn't budge she kicks it and slams her hands into it. The next time she hits the plank, the wood jolted upwards as if something had moved. Encouraged, sends a sharp kick at it and pounds on the wood once again. This time something above her doesn't just move, she hears a voice.

She stills, listening. Are they friend or foe? Above her, she can hear the noise of something heavy being dragged to one side, followed by the sound of rocks rolling. Buffy slams her fist into the wood above her and the plank lifts slightly. Whatever they're done is helping.

The voice calls again. It's too muffled to make sense of, and Buffy has no idea if he's shouting to her or someone else.

“I'm here!” She yells. “Help! I'm under here!”

Her fist slams into the wood again. This time the plank cracks. Her hands are bruised and bleeding, but she keeps punching at the wood and tearing at the gap with her fingers. The voice sounds louder, and there's definitely rubble being moved from over her. They are trying to work their way down to her.

“Here!” she shouts again. “I'm down here!”

Buffy pulls back a fist, punching the wood with everything she's got. Her knuckles break through wood and hit the rocks above it, sending splatters of blood, splinters of wood, and grit down into her face. She doesn't care about her damaged hands. There's a chink of daylight on her face and that light represents freedom. Gripping the side of the plank with both her hands she shoved it hard, sending rubble and bricks rolling away. The rescuer is working hard on his side too, dragging off timber and pulling away sections of brickwork.

When Buffy squeezes her head and shoulders from the hollow where she's been trapped, a man's face appears above the rubble.

“There's a girl!” he shouts to someone out of sight. Then he kneels on the rubble and reaches down to her. “Can you grab hold of my hand? Or do want me to come down and get you?”

“ I'm not a damsel,” Buffy replied. “There's no need to come down to me.” She takes his hand, feeling the callouses on his palm as he helps her to scramble up through the rubble.

Once she reaches the top, her legs start trembling so much that she needs to lean against her rescuer. She clings to him, taking in the scene of chaos around her. She'd been right in assuming a building or part of one, had collapsed. They were stood inside the ruins of a store, the front wall had been destroyed and part of it had fallen over the street. Above her head, a section of the floor above and part of the roof was missing. Several different species of owls sat in the rafters, their round eyes watching her.

Buffy turned her focus onto the man next to her. His lined face was heavily streaked with dirt and she could smell sweat and freshly sawn lumber on him. He wore an old-fashioned, woven flat cap that had holes in it and its brim was covered in dust and shavings. “You saved my life,” she said. “I'll never be able to thank you enough for getting me out of there.”

“I'm glad to 'ave 'elped.” He pushed the brim of his cap up and gave her a cheeky grin that revealed a lot of missing teeth. Buffy thought he had one of the nicest, kindest smiles she'd ever seen. “Are you alright, Miss?”

She shook her head. No, she wasn't and she had no idea how to explain the way she was feeling. Deep down, she knew something very wrong had happened to her, and yet the way her blood tingled in her veins made her feel more alive, more right than she'd ever done before.

'The hardest thing in this world is to live in it. Be brave. Live,' says a memory of a voice inside her head. Was it her own voice or someone else's?

Either way, it makes her draw in a deep breath of fresh air. Energy and sparks tingle inside her, and she has an insane urge to dance across the rubble to celebrate being alive. What would her rescuer think if she did? She stifled a giggle. He would think she was crazy, and part of her feels like she might be, but right now, she's too happy at being alive to care.

“...it's Jerry's fault again,” the man is saying. “Me and 'Arry were boarding up another shop and 'eard this place go. We think a stray bomb went off. Of course, the ARP's should 'ave found it. If someone's been slackin' there'll be 'ell to pay.” A gentle expression appears in his eyes and he asks, “Was any one 'ere with you, Miss?”

“I don't know,” Buffy says, her giddiness sobering. She doesn't even know where 'here' is. “I can't remember.” She pushed her hair back from her face and her scalp feels tight. When she rubs her fingers over the crown of her head, her fingers come away stained with dried blood.

“Where am I?” she asked.

“Just off Euston road,” he replied. When he saw her confusion, he added. “It's near St Pancras in Camden.” At her blank expression, he added, “ It's in London.”

“London, England?”

“Is there another?”

Buffy looked out at the scene on the street. A red double-decker bus had crashed into the side of a truck and a lot of people, wearing old-fashioned clothing, were sat around the sidewalk nursing injuries. Further off, a policeman was talking to a group of official-looking men in dark overcoats. It struck her as strange that officials were there before the emergency services, but then there were so many odd things happening around her it didn't hold her attention for long. Instead, she looked at the bus again. It carried advertisements for 'Bisto Gravy' and the 'Picture Post'.

“What's today's date?”

“July 15th. It's my wedding anniversary tomorrow. Can't forget, the wife will kill me.”

“And the year?”

He cocked an eyebrow. “My, you 'ave 'ad a bad knock on the 'ead. It's 1942.”

Nineteen forty-two? Buffy rubbed a hand across her face, feeling the dirt underneath her fingers and vaguely wondering how much of a mess she looked. She's yo-yoing between thinking 1942 isn't right and thinking it is. A shout from one of the other rescuers pulls her from her conflicting thoughts.

“Arthur! There's another under 'ere! Come and give us an 'and and stop gassin'.” He'd knelt by a broken shop counter, half-buried underneath fallen ceiling struts and joists.

Arthur gently prised her fingers from his arm. “You sit down 'ere, Miss er... What's yer name?”

She looked at him blankly, before remembering. “It's Buffy.”

He gave her hand a pat. “I can 'ear the ambulance coming, Miss Bunty. The 'ospital will 'ave you feelin' right and dandy in two shakes of a lamb's tail.”

Buffy isn't listening, her eyes are on the other rescuer. Something about the bright blue fabric protruding from under the shop counter is familiar to her. Ignoring Arthur's pleas for her to sit down, she starts picking her way past torn clothing, broken shop fittings, tiles, and mounds of masonry. Once closer, she realised that the fabric is part of a woman's sleeve. Buffy's eyes went to the woman's hand and then the rings she's wearing. Her stomach drops.

“Mom!”

Falling to her knees, she takes the limp hand in hers and feels the wrist for a pulse.

“She's alive!” Elation wars with disbelief. There was a horrible image inside her head of her Mom lying dead on the couch. That must be a lie. She can't trust the memories her brain is throwing at her. Keeping hold of her mother's hand, Buffy prays likes she's never done before, “Please God, don't take her away from me. Please God, let her live.”

The rescuers mutter an 'amen' and then move in to clear the area of debris. Seeing them struggling to move a heavy joist, Buffy is on her feet and grabbing it to take the weight. With strength belying her diminutive size, she helps them carry it away. Once that was done, she began lifting away sections of plaster, chunks of rubble and wood, throwing them more and more haphazardly as her clearing became frenzied.

“Easy now.” Arthur puts his hands on her shoulders to stop her. “ You need to take care when uncovering people. It's got to be done carefully, see? Else the whole lot could topple on her or someone else.” Only half listening, Buffy nodded, trying to shrug him off. The man hadn't finished; he took the brick from her and tossed it to one side. “Leave it to us, Miss. Sit back 'ere until the ambulance comes. We'll soon 'ave her out.”

Buffy shook her head, “No, I... I need to help. She's my Mom. She needs me.” The memory of a dead Joyce Summers looms in her mind, and she's determined to do everything she can to help her.

By the time the ambulances arrive, Joyce Summers and three more survivors have been pulled from the rubble.

….......

A/N;

Yep, death is the next big adventure. I hope you enjoyed the different way I used to place Buffy in a new dimension. I won't be going with the melancholy 'I was ripped with heaven' vibe the original series had going on.

This Buffy is grateful to be alive and more settled as Joyce is still with her. Every girl needs her Mom!


	3. An Uncertain Future

“And how's my favourite patient doing this morning?” asked Dr McGregor. He was an elderly man who wore round, horn rimmed spectacles and his thick grey hair stood up around his head in a halo. He stood, twirling his stethoscope around his fingers, as he waited for the nurse to remove her bandages.

Favourite patient? Buffy wasn't sure what made her his favourite patient. Apart from answering yes or no didn't think she'd ever had a conversation with him. Usually he just read her notes, prodded her injuries until she yelped with pain, and then wrote down an observation before moving on to someone else.

“Me?” Buffy waved a bandaged hand at him. “I'd say I'm peachy with a side of keen.” Hoping he wouldn't ask too many personal questions. On the other side of the curtain was another bed and another occupant who couldn't help overhearing everything being said.

Buffy was in a children's ward. She hated it. It wasn't just the lack of privacy, the constant smell of disinfectant, or being with kids who were a lot younger than herself. No, it wasn't just that. There was something about this place, maybe all hospitals, that made her skin crawl and kept her on constant edge. She kept imagining demons lurking in corridors and closets, ready to spring out and suck the life from her when there was no one around.

“Hmm,” replied the doctor as he read through her notes. “ Peachy, eh? You're making me think of lunch, although I suspect it will be some time before I see peaches and cream again. So Miss...” he lifted the notes closer to his eyes and squinted, “Buffy Summers. Can you tell me when your birthday is and how old you are?”

“According to my passport it's January the 19th 1927.” She tried to sound chipper about it. The truth was that until she'd opened her Mom's purse and found their identity papers, she'd no idea when she was born. “I worked it out and I'm fifteen.”

“No recollection of how old you were, before you saw your passport?”

“Nope.” Buffy shook her head. “It was all a blank until I found Mom's papers.” When she'd seen her date of birth she'd had her doubts, but later, after cleaning up, she'd looked in the mirror and it was definitely her own fifteen-year-old face looking back at her. She continued, “I didn't know Mom and I had been born in England either, until I saw it on the papers.”  
According to the paperwork the reason for them returning to England was so that they could reunite 'with family'. Was that her father? Was Hank Summers waiting for them somewhere, wondering why they'd never turned up? Was he scouring the hospitals, out of his mind with worry? Or was he overseas, fighting?

“Do you know what amnesia is?” Dr McGregor dropped the notes back into the container hanging from the bottom of the bed. Nurse Wilson, a sturdy girl from Yorkshire, had unwrapped the bandage on Buffy's head and was now removing those on her hands.

Buffy replied quickly, “Partial or full loss of memory. Often brought on by a blow to the head, a traumatic experience or bad drugs. I've got two out of three.” She'd overheard Dr McGregor's long-winded lectures to the medical students when he'd been doing his ward rounds.

“Uh, hmm, very good.” He sucked his teeth and rocked on his heels, eyeing her thoughtfully. “This type of memory loss is often associated with a trauma such as you've experienced. Have you had any more headaches over the past couple of days? Have you seen any flashing lights, auras around objects, or have you been seeing things that aren't really there? Hallucinations and such?”

“Nope,” said Buffy. “I never see anything weird. I'm totally normal.” She'd never admit to seeing things that other people said weren't there. She knew what would happen if she did - a lot of therapy and a nice padded cell. Uh-huh, never, ever, do that.

Doctor McGregor smiled. He took off his glasses and began to rub the lenses his handkerchief. The action gave Buffy a sudden flashback of another man doing exactly the same thing. She wished she could remember his name or if he was important to her.

“That's very good news.” The doctor looked pleased. “Very good news, indeed. No memories coming back at all?”

“Just random things,” Buffy replied, hoping he wouldn't ask for details. Some of her flashbacks were odd and might get her diagnosed with insanity. “I have dreams.”

“About?”

“It's more like nightmares,” explained Buffy. She'd dreamt her Mom had died of a brain haemorrhage, of a curly-haired woman trying to kill her, and a particularly nasty dream where she'd thrown herself off a tower into a swirling vortex and hit the struts on the way down. She wasn't going to tell him about those, instead she said, “They're about losing my Mom and they're about being buried underground.”

“As to be expected,” remarked Dr McGregor, who was shining a light into her eyes. “Look to the left and then the right for me, please. Thank you! What was I saying? Oh, yes. After what you've gone through, I'd be very surprised if you didn't have a bad dream or two.”  
He put away the torch and moved his attention to the top of her head. His fingers raked through her hair. “No personal memories appearing? Your pets or your school? Hampden High wasn't it?”

“It says Hemery High on the paperwork.” An image flashed through her mind of sitting in the sunshine outside a pretty high school with friends. The scene was then overlaid with a darker one, of a burnt out school gym, and the uncomfortable feeling that it had something to do with her. Buffy felt a guilty flush rise in her cheeks. “Umm, no.”

He made a little tssking noise from between his teeth. “Not to worry, not to worry.”

The way he said it made her think that she should be worried. Buffy shot a glance at the nurse's face to see if she thought it was a bad sign. Nurse Wilson had her head turned away, sorting out the old bandages.

The doctor went on, “I've seen many cases of amnesia where the memories return once the patient is in a more familiar environment. I have no doubt that it will be the same for you.”

“I live in hope,” replied Buffy. Hoping she'd have some nice memories. The few she'd had so far weren't exactly making her want to share.

Dr McGregor had given up on trying to find signs of a scar on her scalp. “You've remarkably good healing skin, Miss Summers.”

“It's the vitamins,” Buffy explained. She wasn't sure why she felt the need to cover up her fast healing. “Mom's always been keen on me eating healthily. She makes sure I have my five a day. I had the healthiest lunch-boxes in school.”

He raised a bushy white eyebrow at her, making her pause. Yeah, if she had amnesia, she wouldn't remember her lunch boxes. Changing the subject, she asked, “How's my Mom?”

“Your mother is as well as can be expected. I have every confidence that by the end of the week she'll be well enough for a visit.” He kept his head down as he spoke, holding and inspecting each hand and then running his fingers across the scarring. “Right now she needs peace and quiet.”

Buffy nodded. She got the same answer every day. No visitors. It hadn't stopped her. Every night she'd pull the curtains closed around her bed and place pillows underneath the covers to make it appear as if she was asleep in there. Then she'd sneak past the nurse, go up the stairs to the next level and, if the coast was clear, dash into her Mom's room. In all the times she'd been in there, her Mom had only woken once. She'd smiled at Buffy and murmured her name before drifting back to sleep, it was as if she'd been too exhausted to stay awake. Buffy hadn't minded the lack of conversation. She spent most nights in a chair drawn up next to the bed, holding her Mom's hand as she slept. Buffy tugged her thoughts back to Dr McGregor, who was talking again.

“Less than three days for all those injuries to completely heal.” Once again, he'd removed his glasses and was vigorously polishing them. “I could do with taking those magic vitamins, myself”

He took a step back, regarded her thoughtfully, before addressing the nurse, “There's no need to re-bandage. All the lacerations have healed well and there's no sign of bruising.”

“Yes, Doctor McGregor.”

“Well, Miss Summers, you'll be pleased to know that I can discharge you. Your family can collect you straight away.”

The nurse looked up sharply. “We haven't been able to locate a family, doctor. I'll need to speak to the orphanages.”

“Whoa! What do you mean an orphanage?” Buffy didn't like hospitals, but she liked the sound of an orphanage even less. Shouldn't they keep her here until her memory returned? She'd been counting on staying in the hospital until her Mom was better. If she wasn't a patient, how would she be able to sneak in and sit with her during the night?

“It needs to be somewhere local,” Dr McGregor said to the nurse. “She will need to come back for a follow-up in around ten days time. Can you think of anywhere that might be willing to take her?”

“I could just go back to the hotel where we are staying,” Buffy interrupted. This orphanage thing they'd sprung on her was freaking her out. “I've got the key to our room. All my clothes are back there and I'll be no trouble to the staff. There's money in Mom's purse, she's got savings in a Post Office account and I've found a key to a vault in Gringott's. It's not as if I'll starve.”

They both ignored her. Nurse Wilson simply smoothed the bedsheets down as she considered the doctor's question. “I was going to say Barnado's, then I remembered they've shipped most of the orphans overseas to safer countries. Oh, I know!” Her face beamed at Buffy, almost as if she was about to give her a birthday treat. “I know the very place for you.” Buffy knew she was heading for trouble when the woman patted her arm excitedly. “It's local, clean, and very friendly. I know most of their long-term children have been evacuated to the country, so I'm sure there will be room for you until your Ma's better.”

“What's this place called?” Buffy asked. Not that it mattered. She knew now she was going to hate it. Under the blankets, she wriggled her toes as she got more and more agitated, and the urge to flee became stronger.

“Wools,” Nurse Wilson said. “Mrs Cole runs it and you can't meet a nicer, more God-fearing woman. A tight disciplinarian, but you'll have three good meals a day, a nice room, and plenty of little friends to play with. You're in for a lovely treat, Buffy.”

“Yeah, guess me and little Orphan Annie are going to become besties,” Buffy replied sourly. Mrs Cole probably drank, hated kids, and made them scrub floors. “Bring on Daddy Warbucks.”

…............


	4. Chapter 4

Little Orphan Annie.

It was raining when she left the hospital. Buffy huddled beneath the umbrella that the skinny woman from the orphanage had provided and followed her, dodging shoppers on the crowded high street as they headed for the tram.

As it was getting late, every seat was already taken and they were both forced to stand the entire way. Buffy hanging onto a leather strap that hung from the ceiling and shuffling from one side of the aisle to the other as people pushed past her as they got on and off the vehicle. On the seat next to her, a thin man glared at her continuous as rainwater poured from her umbrella and made a large puddle next to his highly-polished shoes. Buffy ignored him. She was far too busy dodging commuters and trying to stay on her feet than worry about one sour face in a crowd.

By the time they'd reached their stop, Buffy was beginning to feel seasick from all the swaying she'd done and was glad to get off. The rain was as relentless as ever. Mrs Cole gave the sky a dark look and muttered about it being 'set in for the night' before scurrying off past the rows of Victorian terraced houses with Buffy following.

“This way,” Mrs Cole said when they reached the bottom of the street and then she turned right, past more identical houses. Buffy hurried after her; keeping her umbrella low enough to shield her from the sideways rain and just high enough to see the woman's shoes and lower legs walking in front of her.

The legs came to a stop at the bottom of the long street. “This is your new home.”

Buffy lifted her umbrella. Directly across the street from her was a red brick building; it was set behind tall walls that were topped with spiked metal railings. Hung above the arched gateway, a metal sign bore the building's name, Wool's Orphanage. Buffy blinked, taken by surprise at its appearance. It looked more like a prison than a home for young children.

Mrs Cole watched her face, expecting a response from her.

“I like the walls,” Buffy said slowly, desperately searching for something nice to say. “They look very uniform and er, every brick is in line. It's kinda neat, when you think about it.” It sounded kind of lame to her own ears, but she was struggling to find anything nice to say about the place. The building looked stark, without the slightest bit of softness to make it appear more welcoming.

The woman tutted with disapproval. “Without that building, children would be sleeping out on the streets. Come along. We're getting soaked.”

When they stepped through the main doors of the building, the first thing that hit Buffy was the gloomy colour scheme. Whoever was in charge of interior decorating these places must have been insane. No one normal would think green and brown tiles should cover every surface.

'That's because it's easier to mop up the blood after they've murdered the children in demonic rituals.'

Buffy gave an inward shake of her head. Why was she having these dark thoughts? Had she always been like this or had that bang on the head made her crazy?

“Martha!” Mrs Cole called loudly as she shook off the umbrellas off vigorously, making Buffy jump. Dropping them both into the umbrella stand, she began unpinning her hat and taking off her gloves. She shouted again, “Martha? Are you busy?”

A plump woman in her thirties wearing a floral pinafore apron and holding a bundle in her arms appeared in a nearby doorway. “I'm here, Mrs Cole.”

“If you're busy with the baby, I'll find someone else” Mrs Cole patted her damp curls and grimaced as she looked in the hall mirror. “The rain is terrible out there and on my evening off too.” Seeing Buffy smiling at Martha and Martha eyeing her with interest, she introduced them. “Martha, this is Buffy Summers. She's the American girl I told you about.”

They exchanged greetings and Buffy politely commented. “What a sweet little boy, he is.”

“Her name's Enid,” said Martha. She held out the tiny baby to Buffy and Buffy took her, somewhat reluctantly. “Her ma died last night and the dad can't cope. He's just dropped her off.”

“What sort of dad does something like that?” A deep-seated dislike for dead-beat fathers sprang to life inside her. It made her wonder about Hank Summers. Where was he? Why hadn't he come looking for her? Had he walked out on them?

Martha tutted and shook her head reprovingly. “Hush now, Enid's dad has four other kiddies to deal with,” she went on, “He's working all hours at the docks and he's no one to help him but his neighbours. You shouldn't judge people if you don't know the full circumstances.”

“But it's not her fault,” Buffy replied holding the child to her and watching her close her eyes as she rocked her.

Martha softened. “No, it isn't, poor mite. Don't worry, we'll soon find her a new family.”

As they spoke, a door further along the corridor opened and a boy appeared with a book in his hand. He paused when he saw them look over at him.

“Tom!” Mrs Cole's shrill voice echoed in the tiled hallway.

With a resigned set of his shoulders, the boy pasted on a friendly smile and headed towards them.

Still holding the baby, Buffy kept her head down and watched from under her lashes. He looked around the same age as her, but with no sign of a teenager's awkwardness about him. His dark hair was side-parted, cut very short at the sides with a longer, tousled section to the front. On most boys it would have looked severe, on him, it emphasised his best features; his high cheekbones, sharp aristocratic nose, and the slight arrogant turn of his lips.

“Oh yum, to the salty goodness,” she under her breath as she looked at those full lips.

The boy shot a sharp look in her direction. Buffy tensed, her eyes widening. Had he heard her? She hadn't meant for him to hear that. Buffy dropped her gaze to the floor, feeling flustered, and had a sudden flashback....

She was in a deserted dark alley with a dark-haired, dark-eyed man. He had the face of an angel and yet Buffy knew she shouldn't trust him.

“Who are you?” She asked, in her hand was the small box he'd just tossed to her.

“Let's just say – I'm a friend,” the dark-haired man replied, starting to walk away.

It was annoying, He was annoying.“Yeah? Well, maybe I don't wanna friend.”

He looked back at her, a twisted smile on his lips. “Oh, I didn't say I was yours.”

The memory faded and Buffy found herself reaching to where a crucifix used to lie. In its place, under her blouse, the key to a Gringott's vault hung on a string tied around her neck for safety.

May I be of service, Mrs Cole?”

As he spoke Tom slanted a glance over at the baby Buffy was holding. Buffy watched the edge of his polite smile curl into a small sneer as his contempt for it and the young mother.

Did he think the baby was hers? Ha! That was so far from the truth it made her raise her chin and smile. She caught his eye again and was startled to see that his eyes weren't brown as she'd first thought. They were blue, so dark a blue that in the gloomy hall they looked almost black – black, like a snake's.

“Tom, I'd like you to meet Buffy Summers,” Mrs Cole said rather stiffly. “Buffy, this is Tom Riddle. Buffy and her mother were caught up in the bomb explosion at St Pancras a few days ago. She'll remain with us until her mother recovers or another member of her family comes for her.”

Tom politely put out his hand for her to shake. Her skin tingled oddly when her palm touched his hand and something deep inside her stirred, putting her on edge. She looked up into his pale face, noting the way his pupils widened before he dropped her hand as if it had burnt him. He then held it out to the side, as if it was dirty.

Did he think she'd given him cooties? Would he run off and dunk it in bleach because she'd contaminated it? Her polite smile broadened into a grin. Tom didn't look happy that she was laughing at his squeamishness. He still wore his polite fixed smile, but she could see his nostrils flaring, with annoyance.

“Tom is older than the other children,” Mrs Cole was explaining, “We had a teacher call here one day and invite Tom to attend a special school.”

“Special?” repeated Buffy suspiciously. Did he have learning difficulties? That would explain his weird aloofness, the awkward handshake, and those wary looks Mrs Cole kept giving him.

“It's a school for the gifted,” Tom replied, looking down his nose at her. “Even if I explained, I doubt you'd be capable of understanding what that actually means.”

“Oh, don't be so certain that I won't understand,” replied Buffy, cheerfully misunderstanding. “We can't all be a special needs kid. Can we?” And she made sure she gave him a condescending smile. When Tom's nostrils flared again and a flash of anger popped in his eyes, she knew she'd hit home.

“Most children leave school at fourteen and go to live elsewhere,” Mrs Cole explained as she glanced at her watch, thinking about the end of her shift, and oblivious to the rising tension. “Tom, however, will continue to spend his summers here until he finishes school.”

“Did the teachers hold you back?” Buffy was confident that the mega-watt smile she gave him eclipsed his fake one. “That must be a pain.”

“Indeed they did not,” his voice hissed with irritation. “I take my studies very seriously and I have no time for,” he paused, dropping his eyes significantly to the baby, “socially inappropriate behaviour that leads to unwanted consequences.”

“Tom always has his nose in a book,” said Martha. “All the staff think that he'll be running the country in a few years.”

“Bossy, is he?” Buffy couldn't resist asking. She could feel the boy's dark eyes boring into her head. If thoughts could kill she'd probably be a shrivelled heap on the floor by now.

“Oh no, he is ever so helpful,” Martha replied.

Tom bestowed a saccharine smile on Martha, making her simper. “I'm not so sure about politics,” he said slowly, “but I'd love to be in a position of power.”

He allowed his eyes to run slowly over Buffy's clothes, lingering for longer on the tears and the clumsy repairs she'd tried to make. Finally, he lifted his gaze to her hair and the ribbon listing soggily to one side. “There are so many people in this world who are less fortunate than myself. I'd like to make it my business to...” he smirked at Buffy, “...end their misery.”

Those sly digs wouldn't usually bother Buffy, but today she was feeling extra-sensitive about her appearance. This was her first day out of the hospital and she was still wearing the outfit she'd been wearing when the building had buried her. It wasn't her fault she hadn't been able to go back to the hotel, pack her stuff, and find something decent to wear. As for the soggy hair accessory, that hadn't been her idea. One of the nurses had insisted on brushing her hair into a side parting (side partings seemed to be a thing here) and then topping it off with a large white bow, saying that it looked pretty. Buffy had taken one look at herself in the mirror and known she was a walking fashion disaster. All she needed was ringlets and she'd rock the Shirley Temple look.

Tom missed the vicious death glare that Buffy treated him to as Mrs Cole chose that moment to interrupt. “Tom, you can start your benevolent career off by showing Buffy up to her room. I've put her on the same landing as you. She's in number eighty-six.” Tom nodded, and she added for Buffy's benefit, “Dinner is at 6 o'clock. If you require a bath before then, please remember there's a war on and the bathtub must not be filled above the black line. After dinner, I'll give you a list of rules and then go over your daily chores.”

Chores? Suddenly, the irritating Tom Riddle was forgotten and Buffy was back to panicking. She kept visualising herself as Orphan Annie, scrubbing floors and staring out of windows belting out 'Tomorrow' at the top of her voice.

“I just know I'm gonna need Daddy Warbucks to rescue me,” she muttered, handing over the sleeping baby to a bemused Martha.

The two of them left the gloomy hallway behind. Buffy following a silent Tom Riddle through a long series of tiled corridors and then up a bare staircase, their footsteps echoing loudly as they walked through the building. Tom was taller than her, with much longer legs and he set a fast pace, purposely pretending he couldn't hear her calls of “wait up”.

As they passed through each section of the building Buffy noticed that the further they went from the public area, the more depressing it became. On the higher levels, the windows were small, set high in the walls, and hardly let in any daylight.

Finally, she burst out, “This place is like a prison! How can you stand it?”

“You become used to it,” Tom replied shortly, without looking at her. He slowed and led her down another tiled corridor. “We are on the top floor, there's only the attics above us.” The fake smile had long since left his face. He probably thought she wasn't worth the trouble.

“How long have you been here?” Buffy asked, noting the numbers on the doors as they passed them. A couple of the doors were open, and inside she caught glimpses of empty narrow rooms. They looked more like prison cells than the kids' bedrooms.

“I was born here,” Tom replied without elaboration. He stopped beside a door bearing the number eighty-six and give it a push with his hand.

The door swung open silently to reveal a narrow room. Stepping past Tom, she walked inside. Buffy thought he'd leave her on her own to explore, but he hovered in the doorway, his curiosity getting the better of him. “What happened to your baby's father?”

“He ran off with another woman.” Buffy looked around the room, taking in the furniture, a small closet in the corner near the door, a desk under the window, and a narrow cot to sleep on. She sat gingerly down on the stained mattress. The bed sagged and the springs creaked under her weight. The longer she looked at the brown stains, the more they looked like old dried blood as if someone had died on it. Maybe teasing Tom wasn't such a good idea, not if he was the only other person sleeping up here. “I'm just kidding, the baby isn't mine. Martha got me hold her.” From out the corner of her eye, she thought Tom give an eye roll, but she might have imagined it.

“How old are you?” he asked. “What school do you go to?”

She lifted her chin, met those dark eyes, and countered, “How old are you?”

He gave her a slightly bored look. “Fifteen.”

“My passport says that I'm fifteen too.” Buffy ignored the school question as she didn't know if she was supposed to restart school or not.

Deciding to check the view from the window, she walked over to the desk. This side of the building faced the gable end of the building next door. The two separated by a gap of only a few feet. Buffy stretched out over the desk to press her forehead on the window and then tilted her head to squint around her.

“Oh, wow! What a great view! Not.” She turned and perched on the desk to face Tom.

He'd leaned against the door jamb with his arms folded. “What do you mean ''your passport says'? Is the date wrong?”

She looked back at him, wondering what to tell him. Buffy had no memories of the kids from before her accident, but she already knew Tom wasn't altogether normal. Underneath that polite smile of his, there was something dark and brooding. It didn't automatically put her off him. Strangely, it felt sort of familiar as if she used to hang out with guys like him in the past.

She was the new girl here, it no use spilling her secrets and getting a reputation for being a crazy kid. It was better to keep to basics and say as little as possible. “I'm sure my passport is right. The truth is, I can't remember anything from before the accident. The doctor says memory loss is normal and that it might take a while to get them all back.”

“You have amnesia?”

She nodded.

He was silent for such a long time that she prodded him for a response, “Don't you think it sucks that I've lost my memory?”

“Sucks?”

“Yeah, sucks. You know... a shame, awful, unpleasant.”

Tom shrugged. “It could be much worse.” He pushed himself away from the wall he'd leaned against. “Bathroom's on the left down the hall. You'll find clean towels and bedlinen in the cupboard next to it. Make sure you clean up after yourself in there as we're sharing, and don't be late for dinner.”

“How could it be worse?” Buffy asked as Tom turned into the corridor. “ Do you mean if I was dead or had no legs?”

The dark-haired boy stopped in mid-stride to look back over his shoulder. There was a sarcastic edge to his smile and the glitter of mischief in his eyes. “Oh, no, that isn't what I meant at all. It would be far worse if I'd been the one in the accident and it had been me who'd lost 'my' memory.”

And then he stalked off, ignoring her call of “Gee, thanks,” that echoed down the corridor after him.

…..............


	5. Tom Riddle Plots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> n which Tom Riddle decides that Buffy Summers needs to leave the orphanage

Tom Riddle visits Diagon Alley.

Diagon Alley

Tom hurried from the tram stop, darting along the crowded streets of muggle London before slowing as he approached Charing Cross Road. The Leaky Cauldron lay partway down this road, sandwiched between a book shop and a record store, invisible to all but magical folk. As always, the thought of leaving the mundane Muggle world behind him and entering the magical one set Tom's heart racing. 

Although performing magic was prohibited to Hogwarts students, once he was in the Wizarding world Tom would be able to use his wand. It wouldn't be for anything major, nothing to draw attention to him, but a minor charm or two would go unnoticed. What should he do first?

A cooling charm sprang to mind. After the previous evening's rain, the day had dawned fine and was growing hotter and hotter by the minute. It was far too hot for the suit he wore, but Tom was always careful to dress like a high-in-the-instep Pureblood Wizard. He put his hand in his jacket pocket and jingled the few sickles and knuts he'd left over from last year's bursary. It wouldn't be long now before this year's Hogwarts letter came, along with a new list of supplies for the fifth year and the money to buy them. If he was careful these sickles and knuts would cover the purchase of a magic book or two from one of the many second-hand dealers who traded in the Alley and also buy him a decent meal. 

Perhaps he'd meet some of his fellow Slytherins here? Tom's hand automatically smoothed the front of his tailored jacket down. One acquired thanks to his peers urge to curry favour with the Slytherin heir.

'Put it on my tab, Tom. The pleasure is all mine.' Clothes, robes, books, charmed trinkets, and school supplies came his way. Pureblood idiots with pockets overflowing with galleons. Money and bloodlines that should have been his. Tom felt a stab of jealousy. Resolutely he pushed the old anger away, reminding himself that with each passing year he was gaining power. Unlike the old Pureblood families who sat in their vast estates thinking of past glories, his plans would take the Wizarding and Muggle worlds by storm. 

He slowed his steps as he came to the bookshop and lingered, letting several muggle shoppers wander past before heading for the pub's door. He passed through the bar area, pushing his way past gossiping witches and wizards, heading straight to the rear and out into the courtyard. There, next to the rubbish bin, he joined an elderly witch in an extra-large purple hat and a dark cloak. 

“Hello, dear,” she said politely. “Is it time for school supplies already?”

“I'm meeting friends,” Tom replied with a charming smile. All the time, he was thinking 'nosey old bat, come on, come on. Open up the ruddy wall.' 

“That's nice. Have fun.” She leaned forward to tap the correct brick, and he watched, trembling with excitement as the hole grew to reveal the archway that led through to Diagon Alley.

Since he'd wanted to avoid the irritating American chit and missed breakfast, the first place Tom headed for was a cafe. As he waited for the waitress Tom thought over all the ways Buffy had annoyed him. She'd treated him as an imbecile, belittled Hogwarts and then, her greatest crime to-date in his eyes, she'd used all the hot water in the cistern and he had to bathe in lukewarm water. If she'd stuck to the Muggle ministry guidelines of five inches of bathwater there'd have been plenty left for him. Despite being told not to use more, she'd broken the rules and taken a long soak in an over-filled hot bath. 

“Selfish bint,” he muttered.

“What's that?” asked a sharp-eared young waitress.

“I'm sorry, not you.” A practised smile came to his lips, one that most females fell for.

“Is it a sister or your girlfriend who's giving you trouble?” she asked as she placed the steaming plate of bacon, tomatoes, baked beans, and scrambled eggs down onto the table in front of him. 

To his embarrassment, Tom heard his stomach rumble loudly when the aroma hit his nose. “Er, neither.”

She laughed, and after bringing over a plate of hot buttered toast and a teapot to his table seemed inclined to linger. Thankfully, he was saved from her company by the arrival of Abraxas Malfoy. The blonde dragged out a chair without asking and threw himself down into it.

“Morning, Riddle! I was on my way to Quality Quidditch when I spotted you sat here.” Malfoy glanced at the waitress waiting to take his order. “I'll have the same as Riddle. Put both our meals onto the Malfoy account.” He turned a lazy smile onto Riddle. “I say we let father pay for our fun today. He's up at the Ministry trying to find out more on the Grindelwald attack. I told him I'd look for school supplies then I'm not jostling with the unwashed later on.” He smirked and winked, “As long as we don't buy a Nimbus 1,000 each, he'll not question the bill.”

“Where was it?” Tom asked, wondering whereabouts Grindelwald's wizards had hit. He'd didn't subscribe to the Daily Prophet so he'd no idea if the information was available to everyone or the Ministry was keeping the attack hush-hush whilst they conducted the investigation. 

His mind on broomsticks, Malfoy replied, “It's in Quality Quidditch Supplies. I came down last week and they were just putting it in the window. I've got my eye on it as a present for the start of Hogwarts-”

“You'll be lucky,” a third voice interrupted. “There's a four to eight week waiting list for the Nimbus 1,000.” 

Tom looked up to see a fellow student, Victor Avery standing by his chair. 

“Good to see you Riddle, Malfoy. Mind if I take a seat?” asked the boy politely.

At Tom's nod, he took a seat and ordered himself a tea.

“Where was the attack?” Tom tried again. At fifteen Malfoy had two great passions in life, Quidditch and young witches, everything else was an afterthought. 

“In some Muggle place in London,” replied Malfoy around mouthfuls. “There's nothing in the Prophet yet as the Catastrophes team are still dealing with it. They went in obliviating Muggles left, right, and centre from what I heard.” He smirked, “They used the unexploded bomb excuse again to cover up the damage.”

“I'd like a full report of this incident,” said Tom, he'd almost finished his food and was trying not to watch Malfoy eating, knowing it would put him off. “Names of those involved, where, why, when, the usual. I want to know what Grindelwald is up to.” He wondered if this was the incident Buffy had been caught up in. Had a Ministry official been over-zealous with an Obliviation spell and that's why she'd lost her memory?

“Consider it done,” replied Malfoy, chewed eggs churning around in his mouth. “I'll sneak into father's study and use a Gemino charm to duplicate any documents. He's always forgetting to lock his desk - the things I've found in there!” Malfoy guffawed loudly, making Tom wince. From the corner of his eye, he could see Malfoy looking at him and Avery expectantly, hoping he'd ask what sort of things Malfoy senior kept in his study. 

Instead, Tom turned to Avery, who although another Pureblood was more intelligent than Malfoy. “Where's the best place to buy pests?”

“The Magical Menagerie,” interjected Malfoy as he shoved baked beans into his mouth.“You thinking of... buying a familiar, Riddle?” He swallowed. “What are you thinking of? A kneazle? A raven? Getting an owl, perhaps?”

“Riddle said pests, not pets,” corrected Avery. He pushed his cup and saucer into the middle of the table and sat back in his chair, looking thoughtful. “I suppose it depends on what sort of pest you're after. If I had an idea what you want this pest for?” 

“Muggle-baiting.” Tom took a bite out his last slice of toast, enjoying the salty taste of butter on his tongue, and imagined Buffy tucking into her vile tasting Muggle bread and margarine.  
“There's a muggle who's moved into where I live,” he rarely if ever mentioned the word orphanage to anyone at Hogwarts, “she's very annoying and I want her out. Since magic is out of bounds to me I thought a pest might do the trick.”

Avery half-closed his eyes, smiled, and steepled his fingers beneath his chin as he considered the options. “What about a ghoul? The ministry often has to clear ghouls out of Muggle dwellings. Put it in her bathroom and if it attacks her she might die of fright in the bath.”

“How old is she?” Abraxas asked suddenly. He'd been gazing out the window, watching the crowds of passing wizards and witches. 

Tom frowned, wondering what had caught Malfoy's interest. “Fifteen. Is there a reason for this question?”

Abraxas stirred his tea, clockwise, making sure he didn't rattle the spoon against the cup's sides. “Is she pretty?”

Avery and Tom slanted a knowing glance at each other. Abraxas had discovered girls in the fourth year and ever since done nothing but discuss them.

Riddle sighed, thanking Merlin that his own brain didn't reside in his trousers. “I suppose she isn't offensive to the eye. She is small, blonde, American, opinionated, and extremely annoying.” He didn't mention that she'd used all the hot water as they wouldn't be able to understand. A wizard's house never ran out of hot water, a fast working heating charm saw to that. “Enough detail for you, Malfoy?” 

Abraxas grinned, sleazily. Putting his arms behind his head, he leaned right back in his chair and regarded Tom through hooded lids. “Ho, ho. I get the reason for your sudden interest in muggle-baiting. You want her to come running into your bedroom in the middle of the night, diving under the sheets beside you, and begging you to save her from the scary monsters. Good one, Riddle,” he chortled. “Nice to see you've decided to play the field, chuck a few bludgers around so to speak.”

The temperature at the table grew several degrees cooler. “She's a Muggle!” Tom hissed. 

Avery shot a warning look at Malfoy, but the pale blonde was too wrapped up in his own daydreams to heed it. “Some Muggles are pretty. I've seen a few that I wouldn't mind – Ouch!”

A jelly-legs charm hit and Malfoy quietly muttered the counter-charm. “What? What have I said?”

“Never suggest that I might...” Tom was so angry he could hardly get his words out, “...fraternise... with a female muggle. The thought is utterly repellent to me.” Unfortunately, the image of Buffy leaning over her desk to look out the window came into his mind. He'd noticed how pert and round her... NO! He forced the image away, reminding himself again that she'd stolen his hot water and insulted his intelligence, letting anger burn away hormonal wayward thoughts. 

“I know where we could buy a boggart from,” Avery said, changing the subject back to the original one. “They're common enough not to raise suspicion as a ghoul might do. If we put a temporary Silencing charm on it, that will give you time to get it home and plant it somewhere. Put it somewhere dark, under her bed, in her dressing table, or in a wardrobe. No one will suspect you as they migrate from dark place to dark place on their own.”

“Are muggles able to see boggarts?” Tom asked doubtfully. Although he lived with Muggles, Avery was the one taking Muggle Studies and knew how the Magical world affected them.

Avery's smile became positively wicked. “There's been several cases where more sensitive Muggles are able to see boggarts.”

“I don't think this one knows the meaning of the word sensitive,” replied Tom, thinking of how brazenly Buffy acted. “She's a horror.”

“Even a stubborn Muggle will hear it scratching and breathing in the dark. She'll lie awake listening to it, not daring to move for fear of it attacking her,” Avery smiled darkly. “Without magic there's no way she'll ever be able to remove it from her room. She will be packing her bags in no time.”

Tom smiled darkly. Oh, he might not be allowed to do magic at the orphanage, but no one should underestimate Tom Marvolo Riddle's thirst for revenge. He'd get her back for insinuating that he suffered from learning difficulties and then using all his hot water. The thought of a terrified Buffy, lying awake all night listening to something scratching in the cupboard, was a very pleasant one. 

“A boggart will do nicely,” he said, his smile all teeth. “Where's the best place to buy it?”

“There's this street dealer in Knockturn Alley. He removes pests, sells doxy-spray, and so on. If we ask him I'm sure he'll have one within a few hours.” 

Tom threw his napkin down on the table and stood. “The sooner the better than.”

The other boys quickly followed suit. Malfoy rubbing his legs as he trailed behind them into the bright sunshine and bustling crowds of Diagon Alley.

…........


	6. Boggart In A Box

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Buffy has plans and Tom finds his attempts to plant a boggart thwarted

Wool's Orphanage-

“TOM!”

Unaware that anyone was close by, Tom almost jumped out of his skin. The box containing the boggart slid from his grasp and only sharp reflexes had him catching it before it hit the floor of the corridor. With his heart racing at how close he'd just come to being caught red-handed, Tom turned, one hand holding the parcel behind his back as he looked over to the caller.

Buffy was hurrying up the stairs towards him. She still wore the same clothes as she'd done the previous day, but she'd ditched the huge white bow and now wore her hair tied in a ponytail on top of her head. A few delicate blonde tendrils trailed down to frame her panic-stricken face.

“I need your help,” she said.

Tom shuffled the box further around his body to keep it out of sight. After coming back from Diagon Alley he'd taken his new books to his room and on seeing that Buffy's room empty had just been about to plant the boggart. He'd come very close to being caught in her room, another minute or so later, and she'd have found him. 

“You want me to help you?” he repeated, his mind still on the boggart.

“Yes! You've gotta help me!” Buffy came to a stop in front of him. “Get your books out and tell her you've asked me to help with your homework or something.”

“What?” Why would he ask a stupid Muggle to help with his homework? What was going on?

Without further ado, Buffy grabbed his wrist and began tugging him towards the stairs. Merlin, she was strong! Tom dug his heels in, fighting to regain control of his arm and shake her off. “What the hell! Are you part troll?”

She stopped and turned on him. “Troll? Did you just call me a TROLL!” Despite her petite size she suddenly appeared to have grown in stature and appeared far more dangerous than she had before. Her green eyes flashed with anger and he could feel darkness crackling around her like a thunderstorm. He decided that she was more like a prickly hypogriff than a troll.

Tom took a step back and quickly assumed an apologetic face. “I'm sorry. It's just an expression for someone who is much stronger than they look.” Damn, he was good at thinking up excuses if he said so himself. He smiled his most ingratiating smile, saying sweetly, “You are far too pretty to be a troll.”

Buffy's fingers tightened around his wrist and the air pricked with danger until, suddenly, it didn't. She smiled up at him; showing a lot of teeth.

Tom thought there was something suspiciously about that smile. It appeared that Buffy had a devious streak of her own, he needed to be aware of it, especially if she was mental.

He cleared his throat and tried to appear interested, “If you'd explain what it is you want of me, then I shall do my best to help you.” As long as it didn't put him out.  
The boggart in a box was still behind his back. Luckily, he hadn't dropped it and Buffy hadn't noticed him hiding it.

“It's Martha,” she said and waited for his response.

Had she got on Martha's bad side? The woman was nothing like the vindictive Mrs Cole, at least Martha cared about her charges and didn't have her favourites and those she used as whipping-boys.“And what about Martha?”

Buffy took a deep breath and said in a rush, “She keeps asking me about people like Clark Kent and Carole Lombard. I don't know what to say.”

Tom frowned, perplexed by the comment. “Do you mean Clark Gable?” he eventually asked. He didn't know a lot about Muggle film stars, but he'd seen the man's name up in lights outside the Majestic Picture House.

“See! You know more about them than me! Give me the intel on them so I know the sitch.”

“Stich? Intel?”

Buffy clicked her tongue, as if exasperated. “You know, intel, intelligence, sitch as in situation. Mrs Cole told me that you were too sharp for your own good and I should watch out for you but, honestly, Tom I'm not seeing it. Try to keep up.”

Tom closed his eyes and breathed in slowly. He really wanted to use his wand and hex her for the slurs on his intelligence. He knew he wouldn't be able to get away with it; the Ministry would know, his wand would be snapped, and then he'd be expelled. Tom tried to calm himself with the knowledge he held in his hand the means for sweet revenge and no one would hold him responsible.

When he opened his eyes, he found that she'd stepped closer to him. Buffy was so close that he could see each individual brown speckle in her irises. Eyes which he'd thought were green were actually hazel. So many emotions swirled in her mind that he found it dizzying to look into them for too long.

“Soooo?” she drawled.

“Buffy, I have no idea what you are talking about,” he said slowly. The girl was mental. Had she been dropped on her head as a baby?

“Martha is following me around asking me about Clark...” she hesitated, obviously having forgotten the name already.

“Gable,” he prompted.

“Yeah, Clark Gable. She wants to know all about his relationship with Carole and if I'd met them.”

“Carole Lombard is dead. She died in a plane crash this year,” Tom replied. The only reason he knew, was as he'd heard Mrs Cole talking to Martha about it. He frowned, “What have those movie stars got to do with you?”

Buffy rolled her eyes. “Tom! I''m American and from California. Martha thinks it means I lived in Hollywood and rubbed shoulders with movie stars. I've told her that I've got amnesia and, even if I'd met them, I wouldn't remember it. She's been following me around all day, asking if my memory has come back and if I go back would I send her autographs. It was sort of funny at first, but now it's stressing me out.”

“And what exactly do you want me to do about this?” That was the part he couldn't figure out. He hated Muggle movies, not that he'd seen that many. Trips to the pictures for orphans were few and far between.

“Ah,” said Buffy, her gaze narrowed on him speculatively.

“I'm not going on a date with you to the pictures if that's what you're thinking.” It was best to get that absurd idea out of her head as fast as possible. 

She snorted in an unladylike way and curled her lip in distaste. “As if! Tall, dark, and broody so isn't my type!”

Tom felt annoyed. Why did he feel as if she'd just given him a knock-back? Not her type? She was a Muggle. She should look at him and know he was far above her, not dismiss him as not her type. And what in Muggle hell did 'as if' mean? 

“I want you to lend me some books and then tell everyone I'm a bookworm who never went to the movies. That I must have been the type who spent all her spare time in the library and would be best friends with the librarian...” She broke off, a glazed look coming over her face.

Tom watched her. “Have you remembered something? What is it?” Despite him being annoyed with her, his interest peaked and he wondered again if the Aurors had obliviated her.

Her face sharpened as she came back to the present. “I just remembered what my old library was like back in Sunnyhell... Um, or maybe, Hemery. Yeah, it must have been Hemery High. I never went to Sunnydale High.” She gave herself a little shake. “Where was I? Umm, yeah, I need you to tell Martha that I'm a book worm and... can I borrow your school books? 

“No!” All Hogwarts magic books were charmed so that Muggles weren't able to read them. Not that he'd any intention of showing her his school books, but the thought of a confused Buffy pawing through them almost made him laugh.   
To get rid of her, he added, “There are a lot of books in one of the store cupboards downstairs. Go back down and I'll dig out a couple of interesting ones for you.” When she didn't move, he went on, “I'll meet you down there shortly. I need to do something first in the bathroom.” 

Her hazel eyes widened, and she looked taken aback. He regarded her blankly before realising what she must be thinking and felt himself redden. “I'm washing my hands and face! Go downstairs and I'll meet you in the playroom.” He put a hand on her shoulder, turned her gently around, and gave her a little push towards the stairs.

It was only when her head disappeared from sight, that he realised he'd voluntarily laid hands on a Muggle and it hadn't felt as repulsive as when he'd touched the other orphans. He gave a mental shrug and moved the boggart-in-a-box up to eye level. In twenty-four hours the Silencing charm would cease to work and charmed box would open to release the boggart. He planned to put it-.

TOM!” called Buffy from the stairway, almost giving him a heart attack. He spun around, hiding the boggart behind him, and was relieved to see she was out of sight. Good, she hadn't seen the box.

“Yes?” He called back.

“Those books you're gonna find me. Can you make sure they're interesting ones?” There was a pause. “I don't want anything on ancient Sumerian prophecies or demon worship in fourteenth-century Romania.”

She was definitely an odd girl if she thought that type of thing was normal reading matter. “I'll make sure they are appropriate,” he called back. If she didn't find them interesting, that would be her problem and not his.

He sighed, and headed back to his room. Once there, he pushed the boggart box under his bed so that it was well out of sight. It wasn't worth going into her room until he was absolutely certain she was definitely busy elsewhere in the orphanage. Otherwise, she'd spring out at him again when he was least expecting it. She was like a dratted boggart herself.


	7. A Slayer In London

After Midnight

After midnight, Buffy slowly turned the handle of her bedroom door. The once creaking door swung smoothly and noiselessly open, thanks to the small amount of margarine she'd pilfered from the kitchen and rubbed into the hinges earlier that day.

She stepped out onto the landing, her eyes on Tom's room. No light showed from under his door, and Buffy suspected he'd studied himself into unconsciousness. The guy always had his nose in one of his precious schoolbooks, books that he wouldn't let her take even a peek at. 

With a soft huff of annoyance, Buffy turned away from his door and into the direction of the stairway. The curtains on the landing window had been pulled back and moonlight streamed through the panes. Pulling her bedroom door closed behind her, and keeping a cautious eye on Tom's door, Buffy set off along the hall. She made sure to stay close by the wall and well away from the creaking floorboards that she'd made a note of earlier. The boy's dark coloured clothing she wore (borrowed from the linen store), helped her blend in amongst the shadows.

When she reached the stairs, she paused by the window to look out onto the street. Without the light of the moon and stars, the street would have been in total darkness. All across London the street lights were switched off and every house had blackout curtains pulled tightly across the windows so as not to give away their position to enemy bombers. The street itself was deserted. No cars drove slowly along with their shuttered headlights, and no late night wanderers or revellers staggered home from the pubs or private parties.

Buffy looked anxiously up at the sky. It was a clear night. The smog that often hung over London had been blown away by a strong south-westerly wind earlier that day and it being a warm evening meant fewer coal fires had been lit. 

Buffy hoped the clear skies wouldn't mean the Germans would bomb London. If she was out on the streets and heard air-raid siren, she'd no idea what she was supposed to do or where to go. Mrs Cole had told her that the designated air-raid shelter for the orphanage was its cellar. If there was a raid tonight and she didn't turn up in the cellar, someone would look for her and realize she'd snuck out. Mrs Cole had told her that she didn't tolerate shenanigans. Buffy wasn't totally sure what shenanigans were but assumed sneaking out in the middle of the night would be frowned upon. 

There was a small creak as if a floorboard moved underfoot, and Buffy spun around, scanning the corridor behind her. It was empty. She looked over at Tom's door, but it was in darkness. Straining her ears, Buffy listened trying to catch the slightest sound. Above her head, something in the ceiling scratched at one of the boards and her lip curled in distaste. Mice or maybe even a rat. While sitting in her room in the dark she'd heard a lot of scratching going. The whole place was probably overrun with vermin.

She gave herself a little shake. Standing here, thinking about Luftwaffe attacks, worrying about being caught, and mice having a party upstairs was wasting time. Time better spent at the hospital sitting with her Mom. Making as little noise as possible, Buffy sneaked down the stairs and out into the hall at the bottom. There she turned right, heading to the rear of the building and the kitchen area. There was a door there that led out into a garden and play area. 

Once in the kitchen, she carefully eased the bolts back on the door and turned the key in the lock. There was a loud click as the lock mechanism opened, and she winced. The kitchen was quiet apart from the clock ticking away above the kitchen counter and a whirring coming from a huge refrigerator that sat in the corner. Was anyone awake to hear the odd click? She didn't wait to see. Instead, she opened the door, slid out into the cool night air, and closed the door behind her.

Earlier on that day, while Tom had been pushing an ancient mower over the patch of grass Mrs Cole called 'the rear lawn', Buffy had explored the yard. She'd walked the perimeter, checking the surrounding wall and looking for an escape route. She'd caught Tom watching her, but after she'd called out, “Aren't those bunnies cute?” he'd gone back to his mowing and ignored her.

Now, aware that someone might look out of their window and see her, she instinctively kept to the shadows. She followed first the wall of the orphanage, then the line of outbuildings, and then the rows and rows of wooden rabbit hutches. When she reached the last tier of cages, some instinct made her stop and look behind her. Her gaze went straight to the windows on her floor of the building. Was that a face at the window? But she'd blinked and it had gone.

“It's nothing,” Buffy told herself. “A trick of the light and my imagination going into over-drive.” 

In one of the cages, a large white rabbit yawned, stretched, and then thumped on the floor with a hind leg. More rabbits came to the front, staring over, their noses twitching. Buffy ignored them, moving past the cages to a row of storage bins used for storing rabbit bedding and waste. She grabbed one of the larger and heavier ones, carrying it over to the fence and placing it on a level section of ground. Then she cautiously climbed on top of the container. It rocked slightly but held her weight. All she needed to do was spring and scrabble up onto the wall and then lower herself into the alley on the other side.

She tensed and sprang upward. Completely surprising herself when she overreached herself and landed with both feet on top of the wall. A grin of delight appeared on her face. That had been so easy! Except now, she felt exposed standing on top of the wall in the middle of the night. She crouched down and lowered herself into the alleyway.

“Whoops!” When she'd planned this outing she'd forgotten something important. How was she going to get back in? Could she jump that high? Something told her that it wouldn't be a problem. Could normal people jump that high? Buffy had a feeling that she wasn't exactly normal, not that she'd ever admit it. That would have you in a padded cell and lots of therapy sessions. 

“I've gotta stay Secret-Identity girl.” She frowned, knowing the nickname was hers. Why? Putting the confusing thought to one side, she turned away from the wall and ran down the alley, heading for the hospital. 

Taking back alleys, small cut-throughs, and diving into doorways to avoid the few people who lurked in the streets, Buffy ran through the night. Every so often, she'd stop, peer at her map, and look around her. Then she'd scowl because the British had removed signposts to confuse the enemy. Eventually, after backtracking a couple of times, she spotted the hospital. 

Looking for a way in, Buffy skirted past the main entrance heading for the back of the building to where the service entrances were located. None of the doors were open, but up on the first floor someone had left a window open. All she needed to do was reach it, and since there was a drainpipe not far from it, she didn't think it would be a problem.

“I'm like Spiderman with my spider climbing abilities and my Spidey senses,” she chuckled and then stopped laughing to wonder who Spiderman was? In her mind's eye, she could see a familiar dark-haired boy hiding behind a comic and laughing at her for not knowing. 

Xander! His name was Xander Harris. She'd remembered! She could even remember the place in the school corridor where they'd first met. On her first day at the new school she'd dropped her purse and he'd come over to help her. Xander was a schoolfriend of hers from Hemery. 

Except... another part of her said that was wrong. She'd never been friends with a boy called Xander at Hemery High. Buffy rubbed her forehead. Sometimes it felt as if she'd a whole bunch of memories that she wasn't supposed to have and the more she tried making sense of them, the more confused she became. 

The sound of an ambulance pulling into the front of the hospital from the street dragged her from her thoughts. She hadn't time for this. She needed to see her Mom.

Holding onto the drainpipe, Buffy jumped and clung on. Her feet found toeholds on the metal clasps that held the pipe to the wall enabling her to climb up. She climbed, stopping when her head was level with the window. The ledge was a good few feet away, she needed to climb higher and then stretch her foot across. She began to climb and...

Two men, hospital porters, emerged from the doorway below her. Buffy held the pipe and pressed herself against the wall, hardly daring to breathe. If they looked up they'd spot her. 

She heard a guffaw of laughter and the scratch and flare of a struck match. The smell of cigarette smoke drifted up to her.

“Bob needs to be careful selling those. If they catch him trading black market goods...”

“Who do you think is supplying him?” More laughter and the sound of footsteps moving off.

Buffy watched them heading towards a single-storey building. She needed to get into the building before they came back. She twisted her body, swinging her right leg over the pipe and stretching out with her left hand to grasp the edge of the window aperture. A jiggle and a push-off and her left foot was on the ledge. She'd made it. Holding the edge of the window, Buffy took her remaining foot off the drainpipe and placed it on the window ledge. Then she crouched down, looking into the dark, and thankfully empty, consulting room before sliding in through the window.

Her Mom's room was on the third floor, two floors higher and at the back of the hospital - unless they'd moved her. Buffy hoped they hadn't. Otherwise, she'd be trailing all over the hospital trying to find her. She wasn't supposed to be here, so it wasn't as if she could stop and ask someone.

She'd gotten all the way to the third floor without meeting anyone and was halfway down the corridor when, up ahead, she saw someone coming from her mother's room. Buffy dived through the first door she came to. An elderly woman lay in bed, her back facing the door, and snoring loudly. Buffy quickly closed the door, leaving it open a crack to allow her to see out into the corridor.

Two men emerged from her mother's room and were walking down the corridor towards her. A prickle of unease ran along Buffy's spine and the hairs on the nape of her neck stood on end. They weren't doctors or hospital workers! What were they doing in her mother's room?

“...a waste of time,” she heard the older one of the two say quietly, “...remembers nothing about the accident.”

A younger man, keeping his voice as low as his friend's replied, “...whatever it was he hit her with is still affecting her. Did you see how she couldn't keep awake? The healers should see her at St Mungo's.”

“They won't treat her, Moody. You know that,” replied the older man. “Ministry rules. They've put the incident down as a bomb left over from a Muggle bombing and since Mrs Summers is a Muggle...”

“The Ministry and St Mungo's should make exceptions!” snapped the younger one. He'd drawn level with the doorway and Buffy leaned back in case he spotted her. She caught a glimpse of sandy hair, a round and ruddy face, and a long brown overcoat and trilby. His friend was on the opposite side of him, almost hidden from sight. She had the impression that he was taller and wore a similar style of clothing. As soon as they'd passed the door, Buffy put her eye to the crack, watching, and listening to their conversation.

“I think her daughter is going to be a bust too,” the younger one's words drifted back to her. “Complete amnesia according to the doctors. Can't remember a thing. Might as well have been obliviated. At this rate, we'll never find out why Von Kendrick followed them and then went onto the attack.”

As they rounded the corner at the bottom of the corridor, Buffy only heard a single word of the older one's muffled reply. It sounded like 'grinwall'.

Leaving the room and dashed up the corridor to her Mom's room. Inside, a sliver of light came through a chink in the curtains, giving Buffy just enough light to by. Her mother lay unharmed and sleeping peacefully. Relieved, Buffy dropped into the chair at the side of the bed and thought over what she'd heard.

Who was Von Kendrick? Why had he followed her and her Mom? What did he want? What had he done to her Mom? Why did Moody think her Mom was better off at another hospital? What was a Muggle, and what was a grinwall?

Buffy reached over and took Joyce's hand. She felt frightened, confused, and badly needed her Mom. What if this man found out they were alive and came back? She'd no idea what he looked like, he could be anyone. If only she could remember.

The last thing she recalled was boarding the liner that brought them to England. It had been a beautiful sunny day. She remembered walking up the gangplank feeling sick with apprehension and the sound of the waves lapping at the dockside. What happened afterwards? She'd no recollection of arriving in England, no memory of booking into the hotel, and no memory of the fateful shopping trip. It was all a blank. With her free hand, Buffy absent-mindedly touched the Gringott's key that hung around her neck.

Joyce's eyes fluttered open, staring into the darkness. “Buffy? Is that you, honey?” 

Buffy swallowed, there was a lump in her throat and tears prickled her eyes. Her Mom's voice sounded weaker than the last time she'd spoken with her. She couldn't cry in front of her. She needed to be strong for both of them.

Leaning forward, so the light fell on her and mother could see her better, she replied, “I'm right here, Mom.” 

Joyce smiled, squeezing her hand in response.

Should she ask about the men who'd been in here? Buffy slipped from the chair and knelt on the floor next to the bed. Still holding her mom's hand, she used her other to stroke her Mom's forehead.

“Mom, who's Von Kendrick?”

Joyce gave a small shake of her head. “I don't know. They asked me... I don't... remember.”

“Mom? What's grinwall?”

Joyce's eyes widened. Suddenly, Buffy's hand was gripped tightly. “Keep away from him, Buffy. You've not to go near Gellert Grindelwald!”

“It's a he?” Gellert Grindelwald was a man? “Who is he?”

“He's...” Joyce sounded very tired as if she'd exhausted herself. “Please...stay... away... from him...” her voice trailed away, as her eyes closed and she drifted off to sleep again.

Keeping hold of her Mom's hand, Buffy eased herself off the floor and back into the chair. Gellert Grindelwald and Von Kendrick. She wouldn't forget those names. Those men she'd seen coming out of here, were they plain-clothes policemen? They'd mentioned the Ministry. Was that the British War Ministry? She'd seen the papers, they'd said a bomb had gone off and blown a section off the building. If that was so, what was special about Von Kendrick? Was he a German spy?

It sounded as if Moody and his partner were going to question her. What would she tell them? What could she tell them? Would they reveal to her what was going on? She needed to know who this Von Kendrick and Grindelwald were. If those men had hurt her Mom, she wanted to know why.


	8. A Slayer In London II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Buffy meets something lurking in blitz struck London

A Slayer In London

Buffy left her Mom's room well before dawn. Not wanting to be caught by any of the hospital staff, she took the back stairs and left the hospital by one of the rear service exits.

Out on the dark streets, a misty haze hung low on the ground. Occasionally, she would see figures making their way to or from work, then she'd step to one side and allow the shadows to hide her. Each time they passed by without looking in her direction, she had let out a sigh of relief. Most people seemed to be in a hurry, but there was always the chance someone would stop and ask why she was roaming the streets at that time of night. Buffy decided that if that happened, she would run, even if it was only an innocent enquiry. 

Buffy left the main streets behind and entered a quieter neighbourhood. Small workshops were dotted amongst the rows of terraced housing and the occasional storage yard that serviced the nearby railway yard. She cut through an alleyway between two warehouses and was partway down when an odd tingle of awareness hit her. The feeling was so strong that she came to a stop. Buffy scanned the windows of the buildings around her. Was she being watched? If someone was in one of those buildings she couldn't see them. She sniffed the air. The smell of engine grease, diesel, and decaying vegetation came to her. What was she looking for? She didn't know, but there was a definite feeling of 'wrongness' in the air, it was as if something bad was about to happen. 

That's when the screaming started.

Her heart already hammering in her chest, Buffy set off running. Not in the opposite direction to the screamer but towards it. It came from the next street. Someone was in trouble. 

By the time she had reached the end of the alley, the screaming had ended. However, that sixth sense of hers kept her running. It sent her into a bombed-out street. Broken-down buildings with jagged edges stood in sharp relief the moonlight. Pumping her arms, Buffy ran past them, heading towards the end of the street to where a row of pointed, wooden sleepers marked the railway line. When the hairs on the back of her neck rose, she slowed her pace, looking at the buildings around her. 

A single-storey building stood to her left. Its door hung on broken hinges, the two windows overlooking the street covered in boards, its interior in darkness. The hairs on Buffy's neck stirred as she crept closer to the doorway. What was in there? The person who'd screamed? Or their attacker?

From inside the building, she heard scuffling as if someone had been pushed, and then a man shouted, “Stupify!”

Without hesitating, Buffy climbed over the broken door, passing through the first room and on to the next. The rear wall was missing. Before she realised what she'd done, Buffy had climbed over the rubble and dropped down into a cobbled square. 

Her first thought was that if she ever did something as crazy as this again, she'd make sure to look before she leaped. Her second thought was that she might die here. The body of a woman lay on the ground and crouched over her was a robed figure. Aware of her arrival, it rose silently to its feet and turned to evaluate the newcomer.

Whatever this thing was, it wasn't human. Moonlight shone down on the creature, setting the protruding facial ridges in sharp relief. Its glowing, yellow eyes watched from under a shadowed brow, and it opened its mouth to hiss with annoyance, showing off elongated upper fangs. It was a face from one of her nightmares.

Buffy knew that the sensible thing to do beat a hasty retreat and find someone else to deal with this. She also knew she'd need to run a long way before she met someone and that she couldn't leave a defenceless woman alone with the monster. Whatever vile thing she'd stopped it from doing, it would continue doing as soon as she left. Running away was not an option. Could she scare it off?

Inside her mind, a switch flicked as memories kicked in. 'It's a vampire. You need either a cross, sunlight, holy water, or a sharp stake to fight it.' 

Yeah, she was all out of those at the moment. If only she'd realised, she would have packed a bag special. Maybe, she should scream – hysterically - instead?

What actually came out her mouth was, “Hey, Fang-face!”

Buffy winced. Had she really said that? The creature watched her, mute and unmoving. Buffy thought it was probably wondering why she wasn't running down the street, screaming in terror. She was kind of wondering the same thing herself. Why wasn't she screaming in terror? And why was she feeling so excited about meeting a monster in the middle of the night? No sane person should be happy about that. It said rather a lot about her sanity these days.

“So demon, am I interrupting something?” She walked forward, keeping most of her attention on the creature yet scanning the surrounding area for escape routes (a small alleyway at 3 o'clock) and possible weapons (broken bricks and handy sharp wooden sticks all readily available on the ground). “I've gotta say... Is this the best undead life can offer? Scavenging in bombed out buildings and attacking people? No fun parties or drinks at a nice club?”

The mention of drinks brought the vampire to life. He tilted his head, his face curious. “What are you?” 

“Just a girl,” replied Buffy thinking it was an odd question. 

“I can see that, despite your horrendous clothing.” It had begun to circle around her, which suited Buffy just fine as that meant she could step away from it and check the woman lying on the ground was still alive. Of course, the vampire was most likely blocking the route she'd come through so she couldn't escape. Since she had already spotted at least two ways out of here, Buffy didn't mind.

“Less of the rude comments about my clothes!” She didn't think she looked that bad dressed as a boy. “What have you come as anyway? Batman down on his luck?”

The vampire stopped almost level with the broken wall she'd entered by. “Why aren't you scared of me?” it asked.

“Should I be scared, Grave-breath?” Buffy replied.”What you gonna do? Breathe on me?” She'd backed up to the place the woman lay. She scanned her quickly looking for injuries. She couldn't see any. The woman wore a rabbit fur coat that looked as if it had seen better days, a low-cut print dress and there was a strong smell of alcohol coming from her. If she hadn't been in the vampire's company, Buffy would have assumed she'd passed out, drunk.

“You should be scared, I'm a vampire,” the creature leered, showing off his teeth. “And despite the insults, I find you much more attractive than,” it pointed at the unconscious woman, “her. Come, step into my arms and I-.”

Without warning, Buffy sprang forward, kicking out at the vampire's chest. The blow knocked him off his feet and sent him flying into the wall behind him, Buffy following.

“Sorry. I don't date vampires,” she quipped, throwing a punch at his face.

There was a sickening snap as the vampire's head jerked back and struck the wall. For a moment, Buffy thought she'd broken his neck or at least knocked him unconscious, but the fight was far from over. With a roar of pain, the vampire shook himself and blocked her next strike. 

“Are you part troll?!” he yelled. His hand closed painfully around her wrist, twisting and forcing her down onto her knees. 

“Troll? No way am I being called a troll again!” Buffy snapped. 

The vampire was forcing her back, trying to get her on the ground and trap her beneath him. Every cell in her body screamed danger, yet she still wasn't afraid. Despite the pain, despite her danger, she felt more alive than she'd done for a long time. She wasn't going to give in, she'd fight until the last breath left her body. As he pushed her backwards, her free hand felt along the ground next to her, seeking something to use as a weapon.

Dark mesmeric eyes bore into her own. “Are you a Slayer?” He quickly shook his head. “No. You can't be. Slayers are long gone from this world.” He'd pushed her onto the ground and a lazy smile slowly broke on his face, which didn't improve his looks. Increasing the pressure on her wrist until she let out an involuntary whimper, he leaned in, fangs glinting cruelly in the moonlight. “Whatever you are... girl, your blood will taste div-. Ummph!” 

Buffy had brought her fist around to hit the creature directly in his mouth. He pushed away from her, both hands over his mouth. “You've broken my teeth!”

Buffy flipped to her feet. She taunted him by waving the rock she'd hit him with in front of her. “You should thank me. It's a big improvement on your looks. You can always check the mirror... Oops, no you can't. You'll need to take my word for it.”

The woman behind her let out a loud snore. Buffy wondered how she was going to get them both out of here. The vampire wanted to kill her. He showed no sign or running off. _'Stake him, stake him, stake him,'_ part of her mind chanted, _'Stake him through the heart.'_ Buffy had a flutter of doubt. She wasn't a killer. They hung murderers in 1942.

“You've tried my patience, little girl. It's been... an experience, but your time is over.” The vampire reached inside his cloak. 

_'He's already dead,' the inner voice whispered urgently. 'You're just finishing the job. If you don't do this he'll kill you, kill the woman, and kill more and more people. Slay him now.'_

The vampire was withdrawing something from his cloak. The part of Buffy that knew all about violence and death told her it was a weapon. A gun? Buffy didn't waste time thinking, she acted. She lashed out with a sweeping side kick hitting his arm. The weapon bounced out of his hand and tumbled to the ground. 

The vampire thrust out his hand shouting, “Accio wand!” 

With lightning reflexes, Buffy's hand snatched the wooden weapon from midair and slammed it directly into the vampire's heart.

The vampire's eyes widened, he took a single step forward before exploding in a whirlwind of dust that fell to the ground with a soft hiss. Buffy coughed and then waved a hand into the place where the vampire had just been. Had that really happened? Had she just 'dusted' a vampire?

“He even brought his own stake with him,” she said in wonder. That was strange. But then everything about the encounter had been strange from the start. How had she sensed him? How had she known how to fight? She couldn't remember ever fighting like that before, except in her nightmares. 

He'd called her a Slayer. 

Buffy lost her focus as memories came to her. She was in the school library. The librarian, a middle-aged man wearing glasses, came towards her with a book in his hand. "Into every generation, a slayer is born: one girl in all the world, a chosen one. She alone will wield the strength and skill to fight the vampires, demons, and the forces of darkness; to stop the spread of their evil and the swell of their number. She is the Slayer." He placed the book down onto the table in front of her, the title – Vampyr - clearly visible, and said, “There you go, Buffy.”

Buffy swayed and almost overbalanced. No! Those memories were wrong. She wasn't a slayer. There was no watcher here teaching her how to fight and explaining what she needed to do. Those were false memories, like the ones she had of finding her Mom dead on the couch and throwing herself off a tower to save her sister. False memories, thrown up by her overactive imagination. Yes, that's what they were. The doctor had warned her not to try too hard. She was not the Chosen One, she was plain Buffy Summers and nothing more.

Then why are you so strong? The voice whispered. Why do you heal fast? Even the vampire recognised you for what you are.

“Ere! What's 'appened? Where am I?”

Buffy jumped like a scared cat. Almost falling over her own feet, she turned to find the unconscious woman sitting up, rubbing at her head and scowling. 

“I dreamt I met a lovely man-,” she broke off and gave Buffy a suspicious look before sticking her hands into her pockets to check her money. “Oh, I thought you might 'ave picked me pocket.”

“I didn't see any man,” Buffy replied. She pushed the pile of dust around with the toe of her boot to disperse it. “I head someone moaning and found you in here – unconscious.”

The woman pulled the fur tippet around her and gave Buffy a sheepish look. “Must 'ave imagined him. I 'ad a bit too much stout.” Without a word of thanks, she climbed to her feet, pushed past Buffy, and staggered out of the building. 

Buffy followed, watching her wobble off up the road. Should she follow her home in case she ran into more trouble? It was getting late though. Already she could see the first streaks of light touching the sky, and she knew that if she didn't hurry back, someone at the orphanage might find her missing.

When she arrived back at the orphanage, Buffy jumped the surrounding wall without a problem. She tried not to think what that meant. There were too many things she had to deal with right now, wondering if she was a slayer was not top of the list. 

At the kitchen door, she took hold of the handle and pushed. The door wouldn't budge. She tried again, trying not to panic. It was definitely locked. Had Mrs Cole or Martha found her missing and locked her out to teach her a lesson? She reasoned they wouldn't do that. If they knew she'd gone out by the back way, they'd leave the door unlocked and then pounce on her when she returned. 

What if Martha had come down in the middle of the night to make a bottle for the baby and found it unbolted? She wouldn't have left it like that, she'd have locked it.

Buffy looked over at the outbuildings that lay at the back of the building. She could wait inside one of those, and when someone opened the door in the morning, she could sneak back in when their back was turned. 

Or maybe... Buffy had a better idea.

Scooping up a handful of small stones from the pathway, Buffy walked back until she had a good view of the upstairs windows. Tom's bedroom was on the top floor. Which one was it? She scanned the row of windows before plumping for the one to the left of the drainpipe. 

The first stone she threw rattled against the brickwork beneath the window ledge. Her next throw was more accurate. The stone skittering across the glass and so did her third. Buffy was just about to throw another stone when the curtains moved, Tom's frowning face appearing between the curtains. Buffy waved and pointed towards the backdoor. Tom shrugged and closed the curtains.

The next stone Buffy threw hit the window with a lot more force.

The curtains were ripped to one side and Tom's handsome face glared down at her. Buffy smiled, waved, and jerked her thumb towards the kitchen door. This time he made sure to nod before leaving the window and, satisfied he hadn't gone back to bed, Buffy went to wait by the kitchen door.

After what felt like ages, she heard the sound of bolts being drawn quietly back and the key turned in the lock. The door swung open, and Buffy was greeted by the charming sight of a scowling Riddle dressed in green pyjamas.

“I like the snake badge,” she whispered, with a nod at his Slytherin badge before slipping past him into the dark kitchen.

“I hope he was worth it,” Tom growled, giving her a very dark look before shutting the door and bolting it.

The memory of the fight and the vampire's face flashed in front of her mind. “Huh?”

Tom came to stand in front of her, folding his arms.“There is no such word as 'huh'.”

“There is, I've just used it,” she pointed out. Tom's jaw moved, obviously dying to reprimand her again for massacring the English language. Buffy decided he was being so grouchy because she'd woken him up. Since she might need him again in the future, Buffy used her dazzling smile on him. “Thanks for helping me. If you hadn't opened the door I'd have been spending the night with the rabbits.”

But it seemed that once Tom got an idea in his head, he didn't like letting go of it.“Who is he? Is he that awful boy who delivers for the grocer and flirts with you?” 

Buffy felt insulted. The grocer's boy had orange hair that stuck up in different directions, a protruding Adam's apple and a bad squint that kept him out the army. She'd only spoken to him once and hadn't realised that Tom had been watching them. “He isn't my type. If you must know, I've been to see my Mom at the hospital. They won't allow me to visit her so I have to sneak in.”

“By yourself?” he asked in disbelief. “You went there on your own?

Buffy nodded. “Uh-huh.”

Tom unfolded his arms and his jaw relaxed. After a moment of silence, he asked, “Is she well?” 

“She's fine,” Buffy lied. She wasn't ready to admit to anyone how worried she was about her Mom.  
Knowing she needed to change the subject or else fall apart in front of him, she teasingly asked, “Are you jealous?”

His arched, dark brows drew together in confusion as they both turned for the hallway. “Jealous of your mother? Why should I be jealous of your mother?”

Buffy tutted, “No, I mean are you jealous of the grocer's boy?”

“Why would I be jealous of him, he's a Mug-.” Behind her, Tom bit his lip.

Buffy moved into the hall. Keeping her voice low, she replied, “I don't think he's a mug. You were jealous when you thought I'd snuck out for him.”

“I wasn't. I don't care what you do,” Tom answered crossly. “Just don't throw stones at my window in the middle of the night in future and expect help from me.”

“You're jealous,” she goaded, turning her face and hiding her grin.

“I'm not!”

“Shh! Keep your voice down, you'll wake people up with your over-denial. And you so are jealous.”

“Buffy, please believe me. If you wish to elope with a grocer's boy that's fine by me. My only hope is that he keeps you and doesn't decide you're too much trouble and tries to return you.” 

She let out a soft huff of indignation.“Har, har, not funny, snake-boy” 

Tom smirked to himself, genuine amusement replacing his annoyance.


	9. Buffy And The Boggart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Buffy meets the boggart and Tom shows concern

Buffy covered her yawn as she rubbed the last plate dry and placed it onto the kitchen counter. On the other side of the kitchen, Martha was checking on the tins and packets of food in the store cupboard, and making a note of what was running low. Stifling another yawn, Buffy lifted the plate stack and took them over to the cupboard to put them away. She took care to stack them neatly, knowing Mrs Cole would appear later to check on her work.

Once she'd finished putting the plates away, Buffy looked out the window. It was a nice day and most of the orphanage kids were outside playing in the sunshine. A row of giggling girls were doing handstands against the wall while the boys played ball. Over in the corner, two young girls sat on a bench taking it in turns to cuddle a fat, white rabbit.

“Would you like to help me kill rabbits, Buffy?

Buffy wondered if she'd misheard. She hadn't had a lot of sleep recently and after last night's visit to the hospital and her fight with the vampire, she was tired. Had Martha just asked her if she wanted to kill rabbits?

Seeing Buffy's blank expression, Martha asked again, “You do know how to slaughter rabbits, don't you?”

“Slaughter... rabbits?” Buffy repeated confused. Did Martha mean as in a demonic ritual? She gave the woman in the floral pinny a dubious look before she realized that Martha meant slaughter for the table.

Rabbit meat was often served in the orphanage. In fact, Buffy had learned not to ask what sort of meat was on her plate as finding out put her off eating it. So far, they'd given her brawn (pig's head scrapings), tripe (cow's stomach), pig's trotters (feet), and rabbit.

“Yes, we need to kill, skin, and gut some,” replied Martha, happily, putting away her shopping list. “I'm making pies for dinner tomorrow.”

“Where are the rabbits coming from?” Buffy asked. There was a butcher who sometimes called at the orphanage, he never seemed to have much to offer beyond sausages. Did he carry livestock?

Martha pointed to the rabbit hutches in the yard. “There.”

“But... those are the kids pets!” Buffy gasped. One of the little girls held the docile rabbit on her lap whilst her friend tied a red ribbon around its neck. Those kids were going to be devastated if they found out their friend was going to be served in pastry.

Martha raised an eyebrow at her, pulled out a packet of cigarettes from her pinafore pocket, and lit one. Either she had no sense of hygiene or there was no rule banning smoking in a kitchen.

“Those are bad for you,” pointed out Buffy, trying to dodge the smoke.

“They're for my nerves and all the film stars smoke.” Martha took a puff and waved her cigarette around. “Those rabbits aren't pets,” she continued. “We've always raised rabbits for their meat. Now there's a war on it's more important than ever to produce our own food.” Martha took a long drag of her cigarette and nodded to the two little girls sitting stroking the rabbit. “The kids know why the rabbits are here. They don't get attached.”

Buffy leaned over the sink to watch the kids. One of the girls was kissing the rabbit's face. “Are you sure about that?”

Martha sighed. “We had trouble over a rabbit once. Little Billy Stubbs got attached to one and...” she trailed off, watching Buffy. “Well, we think Tom killed it. Mrs Cole was furious. Locked Tom in his room, she did. Said he could stay there until he confessed to his crimes. Course, he never did and she had to let him out eventually, but we never did find out how the rabbit died.”

“Are you sure Tom killed it?” Buffy asked. She knew he'd a dark vibe going on, but she couldn't see him going to the trouble of killing a rabbit unless... “Was this Billy Stubbs a bit of a bully? Did he touch Tom's books?”

Martha shrugged and took another drag from her cigarette. “I can't remember. There were a lot of little boys arguing at the time and I didn't take much notice. All I know is Mrs Cole was in a foul mood for a long time afterwards. Tom always seemed to attract trouble, but Mrs Cole could never prove he was the one causing it. The other kids learnt to keep away from him.” She stubbed the cigarette out on the metal sink and threw the remains into with the waste bin. “They said he was weird.”

“Tom doesn't bother me,” replied Buffy. “I've got bigger problems than him glowering at me.”

“That reminds me,” Martha said, walking off to the laundry room that lay just off the kitchen. She came back holding the blue coat Buffy had arrived at the orphanage in. “I've got most of the dirt out,” she explained, showing Buffy the much cleaner coat. “I've undone those repairs you tried to do.” Buffy blushed, knowing her stitches weren't up to much. “Then I resewed them up while I was sat listening to the wireless last night.”

Taking the coat from her, Buffy squinted at the almost invisible repairs Martha had done. “Thanks Martha! I never thought it could look this good again!” Impulsively, Buffy drew her into a quick hug. “I was risking a vagrancy charge when I wore it before.”

Martha let out a raucous laugh. “Go on with you! Vagrancy indeed. I've no idea where you get these things from.”

A small cough from the doorway had them both freezing and the laughter died away. Mrs Cole paused at the threshold, regarding them both coldly. No one laughed around Mrs Cole, she was the sort of woman who sucked all the fun and life from a room.

“Buffy,” she called over. “I've had a call from the hotel where you and your mother were staying. It seems they've let your room and are requesting that you collect your belongings by noon tomorrow or else they'll be thrown into the street. You can take a tram in the morning and collect everything.”

“Thank you, Mrs Cole,” Buffy replied politely. She felt annoyed. If someone had told her earlier she would have paid the hotel bill and then she wouldn't have needed to panic about their things being thrown away.

She took a deep breath. At least it meant that tomorrow she'd have more clothes and maybe even find clues and information about her past life. Where was her Dad? Where was the family her Mom had come to England to meet? Why was no one looking for them? Did they even know their ship had docked? Buffy knew that they wouldn't know about the accident she and her Mom had been in, the newspapers hadn't printed their names, she'd checked.

“If that's the coat Martha has repaired and ironed,” Mrs Cole said sourly, nodding to the coat Buffy had forgotten about and was crushing against herself, “you should hang it in your wardrobe before it creases.”

Leaving the kitchen, her mind thinking about her Mom and the hotel, Buffy headed towards the rear stairway. As she passed the small sitting room, she glanced in through the open door and noticed Tom sitting at the table with a book open in front of him, busily making notes. He looked up, his eyes taking in the coat she carried. Buffy waved cheerfully to annoy him and he surprised her by smiling back.

That threw her. Buffy slowed her steps, feeling suspicious. What was he so happy about? He'd been cross with her for waking him last night and he'd sulked all through breakfast. Did he plan on throwing her in to Mrs Cole for sneaking out last night? Buffy decided that if he did, she'd deny everything and try to look innocent. She instinctively knew that she'd come across as a lot more innocent than Tom. Mrs Cole would believe her over him.

'That's because you've had a lot of experience of lying,' whispered her mind. 'All those times you snuck off behind your Mom's back to patrol grave yards, slay vampires, and hunt demons in Sunnydale.'

The thought made her feel ill. She didn't want to be a slayer. Why was she even getting those memories? They couldn't be hers. According to the paperwork she'd found in her Mom's purse she'd never attended Sunnydale High or lived in Sunnydale. Buffy gave herself a little shake, knowing that if she kept dwelling she'd drive herself crazy.

Inside her room, a trickle of sunshine came through the window and lit up her desk. The two dark-covered books Tom had given her still lay on the desk unopened. She opened the wardrobe door, inside it was completely bare apart from a couple of empty wooden clothes hangers and the strong smell of camphor used to ward off moths.

“Eww,” Buffy coughed, her eyes watering. “That's kind of strong.” Leaving the door open she meandered over to her desk and idly picked up each book to read the titles. They were Oliver Twist and Great Expectations.

“Ha, ha, Tom. That's very funny,” she muttered darkly, for both books were about orphans. Putting Oliver Twist to one side, she pulled out the chair and sat down to read Great Expectations.

'My father’s family name being Pirrip, and my Christian name Philip, my infant tongue could make of both names nothing longer or more explicit than Pip. So, I called myself Pip, and came to be called Pip.'

Something scratched in the wall behind her. Buffy ignored it. She'd heard rats and mice moving about in the ceiling and walls before. They were always worse when they thought no one was around.

'I give Pirrip as my father’s family name, on the authority of his tombstone...'

A loud bumping stopped her reading. It had come from somewhere near the door and it was definitely louder. Buffy shuddered. There must be rats inside the wall cavity. It didn't surprise her that the place was infested with vermin. There were rabbits outside, the bin of food waste in the kitchen, and kids who constantly left the door to the rear yard open. Deciding the rat problem was not hers to deal with, Buffy went back to her reading.

'...and my sister — Mrs. Joe Gargery, who married the blacksmith. As I never saw my father or my mother, and never saw any likeness of either of them (for their days were long before the days of photographs), my first fancies regarding what they were like, were unreasonably derived from their tombstones.'

Buffy stopped. The hairs on the back of her neck stirred as a chill descended on the room and a cold tingle of awareness ran down her spine. 'Something' was beside her. Every muscle in her body tensed, she turned sideways in her chair.

Her Mom lay on Buffy's bed, pale and unmoving, her eyes staring up at the ceiling.

“Mom!?” Loud buzzing in her ears drowned out all sound. Inside her chest, her heart hammered against her ribs. Her Mom – dead.

The world tilted and Buffy almost fell from her chair. Her hands that were still clutching the edges of the book, pressed so hard together that the book slammed shut with a loud bang.

She started. The spell of terror she'd been under breaking. Why would her Mom be in her room? This wasn't right. This wasn't real.

The Slayer rose gracefully to her feet, no longer a child terrified of her Mom dying, but something much older and more deadly. How dare whatever this thing was invade her private space and pretend to be her mother!

Buffy moved.

Wielding Great Expectations like a weapon, Buffy raised the book over her head and slammed it down into the doppelgänger's face.“Do not.” She brought it down again. “Take my.” Buffy brought the book across, hitting the doppelgänger in the forehead. “Mom's form!”

The doppelgänger jumped away, wearing a bewildered and slightly cross-eyed expression. Holding both hands over its head to ward off more blows, it backed away from the Slayer. Buffy spotted another opening. She swung the book upwards, striking the creature in the jaw so hard that its head jerked and fell back into an unnatural angle.

There was a snapping sound the doppelgänger changed, shimmering, and spinning into the form of a younger woman. A woman with an arrogant expression and long, golden, curly hair.

“Glory!” Buffy recognized the Hell Goddess from her nightmares.

Incensed that the doppelgänger had access to her private memories, Buffy dropped the book. She grabbed hold of the doppelgänger by the front of its red dress and headbutted her in the face before throwing her against the wall. The shapeshifter changed with another sudden and loud crack. This time it took the form of a crying Dawn Summers.

“Do NOT! Go there!” Buffy's eyes flashed gold as something inside her snapped. The atmosphere crackled with danger.

The shapeshifter panicked. It changed again. This time it wore the face of a snarling Angelus. Without hesitating, Buffy wrapped her hand around the vampire's throat and pressed it into the wall.

“What are you? What do you want?”

Buffy had enough memories from her time as the Slayer to realise that this shapeshifter knew how to read minds to extract nightmares. The answer came to her - Fear. The shapeshifter fed off her terror like a vampire fed off blood.

She narrowed her eyes at the thing she'd pinned against the wall. “Are you some kind of fear demon?”

The thing shimmered, trying to transform, and Buffy tightened her grip. As long as she kept hold of it, it couldn't change.

“Are you related to...” Buffy stopped, the memory and the name hovering tantalisingly out of reach. “Um, the little demon guy? Dark Lord of Nightmares. Blusters a lot. Whatsisname? Gachnar! ”

Realizing that it wasn't able to speak due to her hand on its throat, Buffy released it. Angelus disappeared, and this time a dark, smoky orb appeared. Looking like an angry pufferfish it hovered in front of Buffy and shook its head.

“You aren't a demon?” When Buffy had faced the vampire the darker part of her, the part she thought of as the Slayer, had urged her to kill the vampire recognizing it as dangerous. Now her slayer part had lost interest.

The pufferfish shapeshifter shook its head. It didn't think it was a demon either.

“Are you... some kind of ghost?”

It hesitated, shaking its head one way and then nodding – no and yes.

Buffy wrinkled her nose, feeling perplexed. What the heck did that mean? “Ghosts are things that have died,” she said slowly.

It nodded.

“You've never been alive?”

The not-a-ghost nodded.

“What were you doing in my clos-, er, wardrobe?”

It obligingly flew to the wardrobe, peered around the edge of the door, and then slid back out of sight.

“You were hiding?”

It flew out again and hovered in front of her, staring at her expectantly with large round eyes.

A wave of frustration went through Buffy. What she needed was a library with lots of books on the supernatural world. Also, a friendly librarian who enjoyed research would come in handy. Since she had neither, she had to keep guessing. “So some sort of spirit. You feed off a person's fear. Are you a bogey-man?”

A small, hesitant nod, then a head shake.

Not quite a bogey-man, but similar. Buffy didn't voice her next question which was should she kill it and, if so, how?

The bogey-man pufferfish thing looked nervous and Buffy remembered that it read minds and fed off emotions. Her inner Slayer scared it.

“I'm not letting you stay here,” she said firmly. “There's little kids here who you could traumatize for life. They've got enough going on without you causing them mental health problems. I'll have to relocate you.”

But where? She could take it to a bomb site and leave it inside the ruins. Or... She smiled, a dark thought occurring to her. The hotel had threatened to throw all her stuff out in the street. She could take the bogey-man thing there and leave it either in their cellar or attic.

The little bogey-man seemed to like that idea. It bobbed up and down excitedly.

“Buffy?”

It was Tom, sounding as if he was stood directly behind the door. “Are you alright? I heard you screaming and there was a lot of banging.”

“I'm fine,” Buffy called back. Natural cunning providing her with a quick lie. “I dropped a book on my foot and it hurt my toe. I was hopping around and crashed into the wardrobe door. I banged my head and swore a lot.”

There was silence. Tom mulling over her reply. “Are you quite sure you are alright? May I come in and assure myself of your safety?”

He asked in such a formal manner that she found it hard to tell him to go away. Buffy wrinkled her nose, silently groaning. Why was he so determined to check on her? Had he heard her talking? He probably thought she'd snuck the grocer's boy in here and they were having a passionate smoochy session. If she told him that she was talking to a bogey-man he'd definitely think she was crazy.

“Um, just a minute, Tom,” she called.

Buffy turned back to the... The name came to her with a surge of memory - Boggart. She could almost smell the old Sunnydale library around her as she saw herself reading an ancient book on European ghosts and spirits. It was the name for a small, mischievous spirit.

She lowered her voice and pointed to her bed, whispering, “Hide under there until he's gone. Don't make any noise. He mustn't know you're here.”

She couldn't let Tom find out about the boggart. He was a normal kid and finding out weird things existed might freak him out. He'd tell Mrs Cole, she would speak to the doctors, they would blame Buffy and she'd be sent to a mental asylum. Buffy had a feeling mental asylums in the 1940s wouldn't be nice places to stay in.

Once the boggart was under the bed, Buffy opened the door.

Tom looked genuinely worried. He stared at her face for a long moment before peering over her shoulder. “Is everything alright? When I heard you scream and the loud bangs I thought you might have had an accident and fainted.”

“I'm not the fainting kind.” Buffy gave him an extra-perky smile. “Thanks for asking all the same. I'm all good. Now, if you'll excuse-.”

Tom put his hand on the door to stop her from closing it and leaned over her, peering towards the open wardrobe. Using her heel, Buffy kicked the closet door closed.

“I hung up my coat,” she explained, “and forgot to shut the door.”

Tom scanned the room once again and this time spotted the book she'd dropped. Pushing past a bemused Buffy he went over to where the book lay and picked it up from the floor.

“Great Expectations,” he mused, reading the title before offering it to her. “Are you enjoying it?”

There was a mischievous sparkle in his dark eyes and Buffy found eyes drifting down to his puckish smile. She wondered if he was popular with girls and if, at that special school of his, he had a girlfriend. Buffy guessed she would be pretty, popular, be invited to lots of parties, and she'd also be completely normal. You wouldn't find her battling vampires and talking to boggarts. She pouted, life was so unfair. Why did everything have to happen to her?

The boggart scratched beneath her bed.

Buffy blinked. “Um, yeah, sure.” She'd no idea what Tom had just asked her. The boggart scratched again. 'Don't jump out, don't jump out, Buffy chanted inside her head. If it leaped out and transformed itself into Tom's worst fear, she'd be forced to beat it up in front of him

Tom's frowned which did nothing to mar his film star good looks. He tilted his head, listening intently. “Did you hear something scratching just then?”

“Nope,” Buffy replied brightly, popping her 'p'. “Uh-no, never heard a thing. Could be mice. Place is full of them. Not that I've heard any,” she added, “I was just told about them.”

Tom's eyes searched her face. “Are you sure that you're alright? You seem rather pale and... distracted. Has something upset you? You can tell me.”

The scratching came from underneath Buffy's bed again. “Um, yeah. I mean nope. I'm fine.” She placed her hands onto his shoulders, turning him around, and pushing him to the door. “It's sweet of you to ask, but I'm about to do... er, girly things in my room. I'd ask you to stay but...”

“But you wish to do girly things?” Tom finished, the amused smile on his lips warring with deep suspicion in his eyes.

“Yeah, you're real sharp today, Tom-Tom.” Buffy gave him a final shove. “Bye!” And she shut the door quickly on him, in case he tried to get back in.

Leaning back against the door, Buffy listened. Tom lingered around in the corridor for a lot longer than she liked before she heard him leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N;
> 
> a few notes on the chapter.
> 
> Smoking was regarded as good for the nerves and elegant in the 1940s. We know better.  
> Flora pinnies were worn by lots of women doing housework and checking food supplies was a never ending task. Lots and lots of queuing.
> 
> Rabbits were often raised for meat. My grandparents kept rabbits, chickens and pigs on an allotment near their house. They also grew their own food. Check out the rations available to the average person in 1942, I honestly don't know how they survived.
> 
> Boggarts are part of my counties folklore. There are lots and lots of stories about them in Lancashire, usually they hung out near graveyards, on deserted roads etc and sprung out on the unwary. Sometimes they moved in with people and made their lives a misery.  
> I can find no mention of boggarts being able to speak, either in the wizarding world or in local folklore.
> 
> I was asked why Buffy went to the orphanage by one reviewer when she could have legally walked away. The answer is that although in our world kids were chucked out the orphanage at 14, in Rowling's dimension they weren't. Plus Buffy gets to meet Tom Riddle!
> 
> So... Buffy gets a warning about Tom, she deals with the boggart in a Slayer way, and Tom is feeling confused. Your thoughts?


	10. The Cupboard Under The Stairs

Buffy remained in her room for the rest of the day with only the boggart for company. Now it had stopped trying to terrify her it had become very inquisitive. It hovered in the darker sections of the room, watching her with big, round, curious eyes. Occasionally it would hang next to her shoulder and tried to peek at the book she was reading. When Buffy lifted the book up from the desk, it shot off to hide inside the wardrobe and wouldn't come back out until she promised not to hit it.

Buffy thought it was sort of cute, although not cute enough to keep around for any length of time. Remembering all the scratching and bumping around it had done the previous night, Buffy knew it would become much more active after dark and she wasn't looking forward to another night of disturbed sleep.

About an hour before dinner she remembered that she'd promised to set the tables in the dining room. She sent the boggart back into the wardrobe, shut the door, and left her room. There was no sign of Tom before or during dinner,and she guessed Mrs Cole had sent him out to run her errands. No doubt he'd eat later. She'd almost finished her own meal when she heard her name being called.

“Buffy!”

Looking up she saw Martha waving to her from the doorway that led out into the hall. Behind her, in the shadows of the hallway, Buffy could make out two men waiting in the shadows. She wasn't able to see their faces but saw that they both wore dark brown overcoats and one carried a briefcase. Her first thought was that they were the police and her second was that she needed to get out of there fast.

With a sharp reminder to herself that she hadn't done anything wrong – except sneak out in the middle of the night and kill a vampire - she swallowed her last mouthful of food. As she reluctantly got to her feet and began to make her way over, she noticed that the kids had gone quiet.

“Is she being arrested?” asked nine-year-old Trudy, looking at Buffy and then at the men lurking behind Martha.

“She's a German spy,” a boy hissed loudly. The kids sat on that table began to whisper, eyeing her with with a mixture of fear and excitement.

The boy continued, “If she is, they'll take her to the Tower for interrogation, put her on the rack, and pull out all her toenails until she confesses.”

His friend added, “They tie spies to posts and shoot them. I saw it in a film once.”

Trudy started crying.

Ignoring the comments, Buffy forced a fake smile on her face.

“Buffy, these men,” Martha gestured behind her, “are here to speak to you.”

They stepped from the shadows and Buffy recognised them. Although at the time she hadn't got a good look at their faces, she felt sure these were the two who'd spoken to her Mom last night.

“This'll not take us long,” the sandy-haired man said to Martha. “It's simply a case of asking Miss Summers a few questions, then we'll be on our way. There's no need to wait. We'll show ourselves out.”

Buffy realised he was telling Martha in an underhand way that they didn't want her present during the interview. Was interviewing a minor without an adult present even legal? Suspicious, Buffy examined the two men more closely.

Both the dark-haired, older man and the fair-haired one wore their hair far longer than the current men's fashion. There was something else odd about them. It wasn't until Buffy studied their coats that she realised what it was. Brown overcoats might be common in 1940s London, but Buffy had never seen one made from fabric that shimmed when the light caught it.

“Buffy?”

Realising that she'd just been asked to follow them, Buffy trailed after them as they took her into Mrs Cole's empty office. There, the older man gestured for her to take a seat, while he sat in Mrs Cole's chair on the opposite side of the desk. Behind her, the younger man closed the door. Buffy heard the soft click of the key as it turned in the lock and then the air moved, causing her Slayer senses to tingle. The atmosphere around her became charged, reminding Buffy of –.

“Your name is Buffy Anne Summers, born January the 19th 1927?” the older man chanted, cutting into her line of thought.

Next to him, his companion placed the briefcase onto the desk, undid the clasp, and began unpacking a series of interconnecting metal rods. Buffy watched as the instrument took shape. It looked like a tiered stand with three eyeballs set on different levels.

“What is it?” she asked and at the sound of her voice, the eyeballs swivelled in her direction. Buffy stared back at them, intrigued and wary at the same time. “How does it-,” she began and was cut off by the older man.

“Please, ignore this machine,” he said gravely. “I'm afraid we aren't allowed to give you any explanation about what it is, how it works, or its purpose. You see, it's a top secret invention that we're still testing and we don't want the, er...” he trailed off, looking at his younger companion for help.

“We don't want the Germans to find out that we have it, else they'll be wanting one too,” finished the sandy-haired man. He fiddled with a control on the back of the machine before sliding it across the table so that it was within a foot of Buffy. He adjusted it slightly, and once he was satisfied with the alignment, he moved away to stand by the wall.

The dark-haired man settled back in his chair, shuffling a sheaf of notes in his hands. Without looking up at her, he continued, “That's right, we mustn't let everyone know our secrets. Now, please answer the question.”

“Huh? What question?” She'd forgotten what he'd asked, as her attention was on the left eyeball. It had dropped its gaze from her face to the neckline of her dress. Feeling uncomfortable that a random eyeball on a stick was ogling her, she raised a hand, tugging the neckline of her top upwards. What was the eyeball staring at anyway? Her fingers touched the ribbon holding the Gringott's key. Was it trying to see her key or sneak a peek down her bra?

“Your name is Buffy Anne Summers, born January the 19th 1927?” the older man wearily repeated.

“That's what it says on my passport and birth certificate. I was a bit young at the time and don't remember it all that well,” she chirped back. From the corner of her eye, she caught a ghost of a smile on the young guy's face before it was quickly repressed.

The dark-haired man was not impressed. “This is a serious matter, Miss Summers, and you are at an official interview. This is not the time for flippancy and impertinence.” He put down his paperwork and leaned over the table, giving her an intimidating glare.

Buffy leaned back in the chair, her chin raised, and hazel eyes shining with defiance. “If this is an official interview,” her eyes darted from one man to the other, “why haven't you introduced yourselves and shown some form of id?” She tilted her head, glaring at them both. “Coming here, taking me off on my own. You could be a pair of freaks looking to rape and abduct kids.”

The youngest man reddened. “I can assure you-.”

“Do it then,” Buffy broke in, “assure me. Tell me who you are and show me some id instead of prancing around in your sparkly coats,” the pair shot an unreadable look at each other, “and waving your I've-got-an-offical-looking briefcase at me.” She pointed at the left eyeball with her finger, “And you can stop that thing looking down my top or else I'm not answering a damn thing.”

The dark-haired man made a surreptitious gesture with something he concealed in his hand and passed over a piece of paper, saying, “There we are, Miss Summers. This is a signed order from the Ministry of Defence giving us authority to interview anyone involved in the bomb explosion near St Pancras.”

Buffy took the paper, noting the paper was of good quality, thick and creamy yet light to the touch. She opened it and then looked up, sharply. “Is this some kinda joke? Prank the kid week? This is a blank sheet.” Annoyed, she crunched the paper up and threw it across the table.

“Must be the wrong sheet,” muttered the older man looking sheepish.

“We are from the Ministry,” the blonde said after a moment, fumbling in his pocket. “The Ministry of... Defence.” He took out a card and flashed it at Buffy. With the speed of a striking cobra, her hand shot out, locked onto his wrist, and brought the card to level with her face.

The id had his photo and his name, Alastor Moody. It said he worked for Department for Interior Investigations at the Ministry of Defence and there was a complicated coat of arms in the top corner. Buffy had no way of knowing if it was real or not. When she looked over at Moody she spotted the gleam of amusement in his eyes. He knew that she had no way of knowing if the id they were showing was real or not, but appreciated her determination not to be ridden over rough-shod.

“As you can see, I'm Alastor Moody and this is my associate, Rengus Mortimer.” The older man flashed her his own id badge. “Does that satisfy your curiosity, Miss Summers?”

“For now,” Buffy replied firmly.

“Your mother is Joyce Summers?” Rengus Mortimer's eyes sought hers again.

The way he stared at her felt uncomfortable and intrusive. What was he doing? Trying to get inside her brain and see what she was thinking?

“Yeah, according to what I have been told.” She glared back at him, refusing to be cowed. The three eyeballs on the stand continued to watch her.

Alastor Moody perched on the desk next to her. He gave her an encouraging smile. “Ah, I'm guessing you were too young to know differently at the time, right?”

Folding her arms, Buffy gave him and Rengus a narrow look. “What's this? Psychic paper not working so you thought you'd fall back on the old good cop, bad cop routine?”

The pair looked perplexed. Buffy sighed, she wasn't surprised they didn't get her jokes since they sort of confused her too. “Look,” she said, knowing the sooner she answered the questions the quicker she'd find out what was going on. “Ask me the questions and I'll try answering them, but you've got to remember I've got amnesia. I didn't even know my last name until someone told me.”

“How long have you been back in England?” asked Moody. The eyeballs watched her intently.

“No idea.”

A faint whirring sound came from the base of the contraption and Mortimer made a note, slowly, on a sheet of paper with a fountain pen.

“What are your mother's plans?” Moody questioned.

“Don't remember.” More whirring, more note-taking.

“It says on your application for entry to this country that you're here to reunite with family. Where are they?”

“If I knew that, I'd be there now.” Buffy gave a harsh laugh. “Do you honestly think I 'want' to stay here? I don't know where Dad is, Mom's in hospital, and I've no idea who the rest of my family are, or where to find them. I've tried to talking to Mom but she isn't making sense. I don't know who to ask!”

The two men exchanged a long look. Buffy wondered at its significance.

“We've already spoken to your mother,” said Mortimer, not unkindly. “We can see she's very ill and she wasn't able to recollect the accident. What about you? Has anything from that day come back? Anything at all?”

Buffy shook her head. She'd been remembering snippets of her life from before they'd sailed but nothing about the explosion. “I don't remember anything before waking up buried beneath the rubble. It's all a blank.”

Mortimer pressed, “You were seen speaking to a man shortly before the building collapsed. Was he someone you were meeting? Did he give you a message? Or did he try to force you to do something and used words that might have sounded strange to you?”

“I don't remember.”

“This is important, Miss Summers,” Mortimer asked again, his eyes on hers. The triple eyeball contraption watched her intently. “Are you positive you don't recall that man?”

“Honestly, I don't remember. I wish I could.” The eyeball machine whirred and Mortimer jotted down a note.

Alastor Moody let out a loud sigh. He chewed at the side of his cheek, thinking over her answers, and decided to try something different. “Does the name Hubert Von Kendrick mean anything to you?”

“Should it?” Buffy replied. One of the eyeballs swivelled and the machine made a loud whirr, causing both men to look at it. Buffy bit her lip. Was it some kind of lie detector?

Without warning, Moody swung himself from the desk, stepping towards her, and looming over her. “What about Gellert Grindelwald, Miss Summers? What do you know of him?”

Moody's face hovering over hers was tense and, although Buffy had no idea who Grindelwald was, she remembered her mother's frantic warning. This Grindelwald must be very dangerous.

“Is Gellert Grindelwald the Big Bad around here?” she asked, watching their reactions closely. Their expressions didn't change, but their eyes became bleak and hard.

“Aye, he's a bad lot. You've heard of him?” Moody pressed.

“I...” Buffy began. It felt as if every eyeball in the room was focussed on her – even the ones without a body. “I heard his name for the first time last night.” She lifted her head, defiantly. “I went to visit Mom and saw you two coming from Mom's room. I overheard you talking about Grindelwald and Von Kendrick.” There, she'd put her cards on the table and she'd been honest with them. Would they be honest with her in return and tell her what was going on?

“You spied on us?” Mortimer asked doubtfully.

“Incredulous though it might seem – yeah.” Buffy flicked an imaginary piece of lint from her skirt. “Maybe, you two shouldn't have a private conversation in a public corridor if you don't wanna be overheard.”

Mortimer shared a look with Moody, muttering under his breath, “I can't believe neither of us noticed her.”

Buffy decided it was the right time to bombard them with questions. “Who are Von Kendrick and Grindelwald? What have they done that's so bad? What have they got to do with me and Mom? If we're in danger, I need to know.” Their faces shuttered and she narrowed her eyes. They had information and weren't going to share.

“I'm sorry.” Moody looked as if he might mean it. “We can't tell you anything about Von Kendrick or Grindelwald, we've been sworn to secrecy, and we'd be breaking every rule in the book by telling you. However, I reckon, it's a case of you and your Mum being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

The eyeball machine looked at Moody and made a loud whirring. Buffy pretended she hadn't noticed.

Moody slanted a glance at the older man. “Mortimer, is there anything else we need to ask Miss Summers?”

Mortimer examined his paperwork and tapped the eyeball machine with his finger. “No, there's nothing else. It might not seem like it, but you've been very helpful. Hopefully, we won't need to bother you again.”

As meekly as she could, Buffy rose and went to the door. Moody opened it for her, smiling sympathetically, and telling her quietly, “Good luck, Buffy. I hope yer Mum gets better and you find your Dad.”

As soon as the door closed on her, Buffy darted to the next door down the corridor, yanked open the door of the broom cupboard, and slid into the tiny space. Pulling the door behind her, but not closing it since there was no handle on the inside, she skirted around the metal mop bucket, and put her ear against the dividing wall.

She heard Moody talking. “Well? Find anything?”

Mortimer answered, “Not a dicky bird. Her mind's a blank.”

“Any signs of someone …” A door banged further along the corridor and Buffy missed part of Moody's sentence. “... her memory?”

From inside the room, came the sound of something being dismantled. Buffy guessed it was Moody disassembling the eyeball machine. “…the Dark Detector shows...” a clang as something dropped on the floor, “...nasty stuff. And a lot of it.”

There was the click of the briefcase snapping shut.

“Von Kendrick was hexing all over the place. It makes sense that he got them with a curse when I apparated out,” said Moody. “So... we're back at the same question once more. What was Von Kendrick doing in London and why was he following them?”

Buffy blinked. Hexing? If Von Kendrick was using dark magic he must be a warlock? Had she been hit by a spell? Is that why she couldn't remember anything? The idea didn't seem ludicrous to her as once it might have done. Those weird memories of being a Slayer told her magic existed.  
Moody and Mortimer were here investigating a dark wizard and Moody seemed to think the warlock had followed her and spoken to her at one point. What had Von Kendrick said? She chewed at her bottom lip, wishing her memory of that day was intact.

In the corridor, a group of shouting kids ran past, and she missed Mortimer's mumbled reply.

Moody spoke again, “The Ministry should have owled the family once they realised that she was a Squib.”

Buffy wondered if she'd misheard. What was a Squib? And what was 'owled'? Deciding that she'd misheard him, she pressed her ear harder to the wall. The two men had moved over to the door, and their voices were lower. Despite that, Buffy was still able to hear them.

“I don't think that's a good idea,” said Mortimer. “You know what some Pureblood families can be like about their Squibs.”

There was a heavy silence. Then a soft huff and gentle “Aye,” from Moody.

Mrs Cole's office door opened, and the sound of footsteps echoed around the hall as the two men approached the broom cupboard. Buffy tensed as they passed the door.

Moody chuckled. “I think Buffy would be able to hold her own. She's a feisty, little thing.”

Mortimer gave a derisive snort and muttered darkly, “A glare that would stop a charging Hippogriff.”

They must have reached the front door as she heard it open and then the sound of a scuffle.

Tom Riddle's voice said, “I beg your pardon. I had no idea anyone was behind the door.”

“No harm done, lad,” replied Moody. Buffy heard the two men walk out, the front door close, followed by Tom's footsteps in the hallway.

Buffy waited until she heard the kitchen door open at the bottom of the corridor. She wasn't in the mood to speak to anyone. All she wanted to do was hide in her room and think over everything she had learned. What was a Squib? Why would their family be angry if either she or her Mom were Squibs? And what the heck was a Hypogriff?

Inside her mind, the part of her she thought of as the Slayer told her she needed a Watcher - preferably one named Giles. The trouble was that she might have some of the Slayer's memories, but she had none of the Slayer's friends. She was all alone.

A mocking voice inside her mind snarled harshly, 'No weapons, no friends, no hope. Take all that away and what's left?'

“Me,” Buffy replied out loud. When it came down to it, sh-

The cupboard door flew open, letting in a flood of sudden bright light. Buffy raised a hand to her eyes, blinking rapidly. In the doorway was the skinny silhouette of Mrs Cole while Tom and a group of other kids stood behind her, all gaping at Buffy. Buffy felt herself cringing, mortified at being found standing inside a closet.

“What are you doing, girl?” snapped Mrs Cole, her eyes darting around the small space as if expecting to find someone else hiding in there with her.

“I, er, heard something scratching in here,” explained Buffy. She reached up and tapped the wooden panel over her head. “I think you've got termites. You should have it treated before the place falls down.”

Mrs Cole scowled. “You stupid girl! We don't have termites in Britain! If you heard anything scratch it would a mouse. Come out of there at once, you're making a fool of yourself.” Once Buffy was out of the cupboard, Mrs Cole poked her head into the small space, looking around. “You'd better not be leaving messages in there for that grocer's boy!”

Buffy shot a dark look at Tom, who shrugged and gave her a not-so-innocent grin.

“I don't have a boyfriend, Mrs Cole,” Buffy said, feeling affronted that anyone would think she fancied the grocer's boy. “I don't want one. I have enough problems.”

Mrs Cole kicked the mop bucket to one side and satisfied that there was no message hidden beneath it, turned back to Buffy and those watching. “Make sure you keep it that way. I won't tolerate that sort of thing under my roof.” She swung around, pointed at Tom and snapped, “Tom! Stop smirking!” and then marched off back to the dining room.

Tom lingered behind. “What 'were' you doing in the cupboard under the stairs, Buffy?” he asked curiously.

She rolled her eyes at him. As if she was going to tell him about the interview! What would he know about magic, Squibs, Muggles, and Purebloods? He would think she was crazy.

Instead, she settled for, “Wouldn't you like to know,” and headed off to her room. Intending to spend time on her own - with her new friend, the boggart.


	11. Riddle In The Moonlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom and Buffy meet in the middle of the night

After tossing and turning in her narrow bed for over an hour, Buffy knew that sleep was going to evade her tonight. Not only was the boggart making furtive little scratching noises inside her wardrobe, but she was worried about her Mom and the things she'd overheard the Ministry guys saying as they left.

The family her Mom wanted to meet, what if they didn't want to see them because they were Squibs? What was a Squib? What had they done that was so wrong?

The boggart scratched again and Buffy had had enough. She pushed back the itchy bedding and sat up. From over her shoulder, moonlight trickled into her room from between the gap in the curtains. Mrs Cole wouldn't like the way she'd left the curtains. The woman had given Buffy a long lecture on how all curtains needed to be closed tightly so that the German bombers wouldn't spot any light. Not wanting the orphanage to be bombed, Buffy had made sure to only open the curtains once she'd switched off the light. It wasn't as if she needed to use artificial light to find her way in the dark, not with her keen night vision.

The boggart bumped gently against the side of the wardrobe. It must have heard her moving and it wanted to come out. Deciding to get a glass of water, Buffy slipped on her slippers and padded over to the wardrobe, opening it and letting the boggart to float out. It bounded around her excitedly looking like a ghost of a little puffer fish.

“I'm not playing,” Buffy said firmly, refusing to look at its big soulful eyes. “Can't you go and scare some mice or something?”

It gave her a reluctant nod before shooting off through the ceiling.

Buffy opened her bedroom door, making sure the bathroom was empty before heading for it. Although she wouldn't pass Tom's door to reach their shared bathroom she moved quietly, so as not to wake him. The rest of the bedrooms along this corridor were empty; most of the kids had been evacuated from Wool's and only those with ill parents or waiting to be evacuated were still here.

On her way back to her room, she heard the sound of a heavy truck rumbling past and coming to a stop further down the street. Curious, Buffy moved to the window that overlooked the street and tugged aside the thick black material. From downstairs, came the sound of the hallway clock striking eleven. What was a truck doing outside at this time? She peered out into the deserted cobble street, looking to her left where she thought the vehicle might have gone. There were no street lights but the moon showed her an empty street. Had it turned into the next street or turned into one of the back alleyways? What were they up to? They might be what Martha called Spivs, men who dealt in blackmarket goods. She'd the urge to go outside and investigate.

“If Mrs Cole catches you out of bed, you'll be scrubbing floors for days,” Tom said quietly from one of the shadows behind her.

Buffy jumped and then squeaked, as the glass of water in her hand drenched her in cold water.

With a soft shush of warning, Tom stepped from the shadows. Buffy saw he wore a dark-coloured robe over his snake pyjamas. She alsos noticed that the robe had a coat of arms embroidered onto the breast pocket. There was enough light for Buffy to read the word underneath the shield – Slytherin. She wondered what it meant, and was about to ask when Tom distracted her.

He pulled the glass from her wet hand. “I don't want you to make more of a mess,” he scolded as if she was a small child.

As he placed the glass carefully upon the window ledge, a long section of black hair fell over his forehead. Buffy gasped as a memory of another dark-haired man came to her - Angel.

Seeing her staring at him, Tom raised a questioning eyebrow. Buffy didn't notice. She frowned, as her mind tried to remember more of the man who'd once met so much to her.

Tom caught the frown and asked, “What's wrong?”

She looked away, her eyes still unfocused as she fought to hold onto the elusive memory. “You reminded me of someone, that's all.”

“A boy?” he asked, feeling irritated. He was special, he was different. He shouldn't remind her of anyone but him.

“A man.” Since Tom was waiting, expecting her to explain, Buffy went on, “Except, I don't think, that I really knew him. I think he must be a figment of my imagination.” She twisted, looking up, and directly into his dark eyes. “Tom, do you ever remember doing something that could never have happened?” she asked.

Tom blinked, confused. “What? Er, no. Perhaps you should see a doctor?”

“I don't want to see a doctor. It's probably just the amnesia affecting me.” Buffy tried to shrug it off, hoping that he'd forget all about it. She wouldn't tell him about the other things she knew. Tom was the sort who'd never believe in magic or that there were people called Purebloods, Squibs, and Muggles. If she told him that a dark wizard had hexed her, he'd probably say she was destined for a straitjacket and a trip to the crazy ward.

Tom gave her a narrow look before turning his gaze to look out the window. The two of them stared out at the moonlit street. Across from the orphanage were rows upon rows of identical terraced houses, each with wartime criss-cross tape at the windows and blackout curtains to keep in the light. Neither Tom nor Buffy thought the view interesting and they soon were caught up in their own thoughts.

Tom was wondering how to broach the subject of the Aurors he'd seen at the orphanage earlier that day. As soon as he'd opened the door and caught the word hypogriff he'd known right away the men who'd interviewed Buffy weren't Muggles.

“Are you planning to sneak off to the hospital again?” he asked eventually. He still had doubts that she'd actually gone to see her mother. It was one thing for him to sneak off and explore London on his own, quite another for a girl to do the same thing.

“Not tonight.” Buffy had a feeling she'd be pushing her luck sneaking in there two nights in a row. She was hoping to go tomorrow night. Maybe after visiting the hotel, she'd find information on the family her mother was planning on meeting. If she could only find a clue to who they were, perhaps it would jog her Mom's memory.

A movement outside the window suddenly caught her eye. Forgetting Tom, she leaned forward, pressing her forehead onto the glass and angling her head so that she could peer sideways down the street.

Tom watched her, taking in the way a lock of fair hair brushed her cheek, the way shadows appeared beneath her long eyelashes, and how her skin glowed where the moonlight touched it. Was she part Veela? He'd no idea if the Veela interbred with Muggles, but it wouldn't surprise him if Buffy had something unusual in her ancestry.

She tensed. “There's someone in the street!”

“A drunk coming home from the pub most likely.” He'd stood at this window many times over the years to watch the street outside. It was probably the most boring street in the world, nothing ever happened in this part of London, and he would be glad to leave it behind.

Without any warning, Buffy grabbed his wrist, pulling him against her. Tom scowled, he disliked any form of close physical contact and now he was stood so close to her that he could feel the warmth from her body radiating through her thin nightdress. The scent of vanilla and almonds drifted from her to his nose.

Feeling awkward, he went to step away, but she hissed excitedly, “Look!”

Buffy nodded downward, her eyes never leaving one of the large pillared columns that stood like sentries on either side of the orphanage gate.

“There's someone down there, hiding in the shadows. Whoever it is doesn't want anyone to see them.”

Intrigued, Tom forgot about moving away. Instead, he leaned in, his face close to hers as they both stared into the darkness below. Seconds ticked by, then one of the shadows by the column moved to the gate, opened it quietly, and slipped into the orphanage grounds.

“I thought those gates were always locked at night?” Buffy whispered.

Tom didn't reply. He watched silently as the shadow made its way to the side of the orphanage. They were heading for the door that led directly into Mrs Cole's private quarters.

“It's nothing to worry about. This is how Mrs Cole boosts her salary.”

“Huh?” Buffy turned her face to his. Their faces were close, intimately close. Tom took a step back.

“Huh, is not a word,” he said firmly. “Do try to speak English and refrain from making caveman grunts that pass as a language in some cultures.” He fought to keep the smirk off his face when she rolled her eyes at him.

But Buffy was more exasperated than annoyed. There was a mystery here and the guy was hung up on her wordage. “Stop being so... Gilesy. One day you're gonna cut yourself on that stiff upper lip.”

“Giles?” he asked sharply.

Buffy froze. An image in her head of a man, her Mom's age. He was stood in a library and in the process of taking his glasses off and polishing them. Another memory of him handing her an old book with the title Vampyre. Yet another of him taking her into a back room where she set about kicking and punching a dummy as he watched. Giles, her Watcher.

Seeing her unfocussed again, Tom poked her arm with a finger. “Buffy?”

A shiver ran through her. Someone, somewhere, had just stepped on her grave.

“Who's Giles?” Tom asked again. Was he the man she'd been thinking of earlier? He felt a spark of annoyance at this Giles, the man who could tug her attention from him so easily.

“He was my teacher. A friend, sort of, I think.” Buffy didn't say that she'd a feeling he was from her darker memories. The memories that came to her at night were always the worst. She'd wake up, soaked in sweat, heart pounding, and her muscles aching as if she'd just fought a huge battle.

She didn't want to talk about those memories to Tom. Instead, she nodded to the side of the building the shadowy visitor had gone to.“So what's going on? What's Cole's sideline? Is she selling blackmarket goods?” She gave a little chuckle. “Is she a spiv?”

Tom shook his head. “No.” He looked her over speculatively. “The passing of information between one person and another,” he continued cryptically, “suggests a transaction of a sort.”

“Huh? Can you vague that up for me a bit?”

It was his turn to roll his eyes and he let out a small huff of frustration. “I give you information and you provide me with something in return.”

Buffy wrinkled her nose and gave him a withering look. “You want me to pay?”

Tom's smile was dark. “In a way,” he breathed.

Buffy moved quickly away from him. Poised on her toes, ready to scamper back to her room. “Oh no! I'm not gonna make out with you!”

He wasn't sure whether to be amused or annoyed at her reaction. He settled for a scowl. “Perish the thought.”

“Whadya mean, perish the thought?!” Now it was her turn to be affronted. “I'm not that bad.”

He took in her upturned indignant face and then let his eyes slowly track down her floor-length nightdress that was, so obviously, a well-worn orphanage one. Then he gave her an oh-yes-you-are look. He ignored the rather evil glare she gave him in return. Having made his point, he continued, “An information trade only. You answer my question and I'll answer yours.”

“Is this gonna be like truth or dare?” Her eyes narrowed. “Are you going to ask about something rude?”

“Definitely not. Why would you even think that?”

“I know how fifteen year old boys think,” she replied sweetly. “Anyway, what's to say that after I tell you something you don't trade back?

Internally, Tom was smiling broadly at her question. If she'd been a witch, this girl would probably have got into Slytherin. She'd got a healthy distrust of verbal contracts, not to mention a dark and devious streak. “Because, if I renegade on the deal then you'll never provide me with more information in the future.

Buffy tilted her chin and asked with a teasing smile, “You saying we have a future together, Tom?”

Without thinking, he retorted, “Only if you wish to become one of my minions.”

Buffy laughed. “And here I was, thinking that you might want to be my Scooby when really you want to be the Evil Overlord. So what do you wanna know?”

“What did those Ministry officials want today?” He didn't say Ministry of Magic Aurors but he knew what they were. When he'd seen them, he'd wondered if they'd found out he'd bought a boggart with the intention of setting it loose in a Muggle building. Muggle baiting was against the law and frowned on by the Ministry. It was Martha who'd let it slip the men were here for Buffy.

“They wanted to see me,” Buffy replied.

“Yes, but why-?”

“Ah-ah! Information exchange.” The annoying bint smirked at him. “Question for a question. Me next.” Tom's face grew stony. Buffy continued to smirk and asked, “What's that person here for?”

Tom raised a dark-winged brow at her, an odd glitter in his eyes. “To see Mrs Cole.”

“Har, har! You're killin' me with your jokes, Tom Riddle.” Realising she was talking far too loudly, she lowered her voice and whispered. “What's their business with Mrs Cole?”

“It's my turn. Not yours.” He raised his chin imperiously and leaned his back against the window ledge, his eyes scanning her face, using legilimency. “What did the Ministry men say to you?” he asked, allowing his natural ability to work its own magic

Something nudged at Buffy's mind. Like a thief, it stole into her mind and there it met the Slayer. The shadows that lurked inside her pushed him back, guarding, and protecting. Tom blinked in surprise. He'd gotten further than on previous occasions but then he'd been pushed back. All he could think of was 'Occlumency in a Muggle?'

He took a steadying breath and repeated the question, “What did the men from the Ministry say to you?”

“They were investigating the bomb explosion Mom and I were involved in. They kept asking lots of questions that I couldn't answer because I don't remember any of it.” She tilted her head, watching his face as he processed the information she'd given him. “Your turn to spill. I gave you extra so it had better be good.”

“Mrs Cole isn't as high in her morals as she likes to pretend,” replied Tom. “She runs a small business stopping unwanted babies from being born. Occasionally she gets late night callers like this one. I suspect that if they are wealthy enough, she will make a house call.”

“Abortion is illegal?” Buffy asked.

“Do you really think she'd hide it, if it wasn't?” Buffy noticed his expression had grown sour. “People have a tendency to hide foul deeds behind benevolent smiles. Remember that Buffy. Not everyone is as nice as they pretend to be.”

Buffy stared down at the cobbled street in front of the orphanage. “How does she...” she waved a hand. Part of her wondering how backstreet abortions were carried out, another part of her too scared to ask for details.

“Do you need her services?” quipped Tom.

“No! I've never... or at least I don't think I have.” Buffy didn't know if she was a virgin or not and flushed at discussing it with a boy. She felt glad it was night time, at least he wouldn't see how pink her cheeks had become.

“Do you remember their names?” Tom wondered if the Aurors had given their real ones.

“What do you mean, do I remember their names?!” Buffy hissed annoyed. “What sort of girl do you think I am?”

Tom stared down his nose at her. “The men from the Ministry.”

Buffy's face softened. “Oh, Alastor Moody was one of them. He was the youngest and quite cute. He said I was feisty and he seemed to like me.” Tom scowled. “The other was called Mortimer. They lost interest after I told them I had amnesia and left.”

He nodded, satisfied by her account. It was obvious the bomb explosion was a magical event, and if Buffy had already lost her memory there'd be no need to obliviate her. “You asked how the abortion is done? I believe Mrs Cole's medical procedure involves the use of a knitting needle.”

“Eww!”

Buffy knew that Mrs Cole was a keen knitter. She'd seen her sat with Martha and the kids knitting away at sweaters. After what Tom had just told her she'd never look at knitting needle in the same way again. “Please, don't tell me how you know this.”

Tom curled his lip. “It is merely something that I overheard once. I haven't spied through a keyhole.”

Buffy leaned her forehead against the window once again. “Those poor women must be desperate.”

Tom shrugged. “One less brat facing a life of misery without its parents in this hellhole.” He didn't care about Muggle babies, didn't care about magical babies. No one had cared for him when he'd been a baby.

“What do you know about your parents, Tom?” Buffy asked out the blue.

He looked up, to find her staring at him intently. He'd never spoken about his family to others, those at school wouldn't understand and those at the orphanage had irritated him with their lack of intelligence. Oddly, he found himself telling Buffy, “My mother came here, gave birth on New Years Eve, named me, and then died within an hour. There isn't much else to tell.” He didn't say that he'd believed for years that his father was the wizard and that his mother had been a weak Muggle woman to die the way she did.

“What does the paperwork say about you?” Buffy pressed. “Is it in Mrs Cole's office?”

“No.” Like any orphan Tom had always been curious about his parents. As soon as he'd learned to read he'd sneaked into Mrs Cole's office looking for clues and hadn't been able to find anything. “They keep all the files in the Town Hall. I overheard a conversation once between an orphan who'd left here and Mrs Cole. The woman told him that all his information was held by Mr Hardman and, even though the boy was now eighteen, she'd told him the files were closed and he'd never be given permission to see them.”

Buffy moved away from him, throwing back the words, “What are we waiting for?” over her shoulder as she marched towards her room.

“What do you mean?” Tom strode after her, his long legs quickly closing the distance between them. Buffy came to a sudden stop and he almost collided with her.

“Since I can't work out who my family is right now,” said Buffy, “let's work on finding out about yours. We can pay a nocturnal visit to the Town Hall.”

Tom wondered why the idea had never occurred to him. He looked down into Buffy's face, seeing the sparkle of mischief dancing in her eyes at the thought of the adventure ahead. “Fine,” he said, wondering what he'd let himself in for.

When he went to follow her, Buffy clicked her tongue at him and pointed over to his room. “You need to change into something more ninja warrior appropriate, Tom-Tom. I'm not roaming around London with you dressed in your snake pyjamas.”

Then she gave him a huge smile and pranced off to her room, presumably to change

Tom Riddle found himself standing alone in the empty corridor. He stared over at her room, it seemed he'd been very wrong in thinking Buffy would do well in Slytherin. The girl was a ruddy Griffindor through and through.

..........

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spiv - is a term used for those dealing in black-market goods during the war. Usually they were snappy dressers and known to be fly-by-nights. My mother told me there was one in her village. He got caught with a lot of sugar and from then on was known as Jimmy Sugar.
> 
> Backstreet abortionists were quite common. Everyone knew someone who knew someone.


	12. The Town Hall

Trouble at the Town HallAs Tom waited by the stairs, he wondered if he'd been wise agreeing to sneaking out of the orphanage with a Muggle girl. If they did find a file on his family, would he want anyone to see it beside himself?

As an orphan, Tom knew that there were many reasons why babies were given up by their families. Mrs Cole had told him that his mother had died giving birth to him, but she knew nothing about his father. What if his mother had been a prostitute? What if the birth certificate said that his father was unknown and he was a bastard? Lots of babies were unclaimed by families for that very reason and it would explain why his father or his mother's family had never turned up to claim him.

Tom chewed at his bottom lip, growing more and more anxious every minute.

If Buffy saw his birth certificate and saw that he was classed as a bastard would she sneer or, even worse, look at him with pity? The thought discomposed him and Tom didn't like that feeling. Buffy was a Muggle. Why should he care what a Muggle thought of him?

Tom decided that he'd tell her he'd changed his mind about going, that if Mrs Cole caught them she might throw them out. He'd go again some other time and not tell her he was going. It wasn't as if he needed anyone's help – least of all a Muggle girl's.

“Hey,” Buffy whispered quietly. She moved along the dark corridor towards him wearing the boy's outfit he'd seen her in the previous night. When she saw his frown, she stopped and flashed him an embarrassed smile. “Did I take ages to change? Sorry it took so long, I couldn't find my... er, hat.”

He'd no way of knowing it, but the boggart had been giving her trouble. The little creature had been hovering behind her door, waiting for her. It had refused to go back inside the wardrobe and then darted around the room excitedly when she'd chased it. Finally, she'd picked up Great Expectations and it had dived under the bed and refused to come out.

“Not at all,” Tom found himself saying. “I came out just a moment ago. Are you ready?”

She nodded and he felt like kicking himself. He was supposed to be ditching her. All this pretending to be nice must be having a detrimental effect on his brain, unless...

A horrible thought occurred to him. Hogwarts was full of teenage boys and girls making fools of themselves over each other. He'd always avoided it, but some part of him, and he wasn't going to look too closely at which part it was, wanted to spend time with Buffy. Hormones, he thought sullenly and began to descend the stairs.

When they reached the bottom of the stairs, Buffy tugged his arm. “You're going the wrong way,” she whispered, nodding towards the back of the building. “The kitchen is that way.”

“And find ourselves locked out, like you did? I know a better way.”

Buffy's face lit with approval. “A better way? I take it you've snuck out before?” At his nod, her smile widened, and a nostalgic look appeared on her face. “So beneath that bookish, tweedy exterior you're a 'Ripper' at heart? A bit of a bad boy?”

“Oh, you have no idea,” breathed Tom happily. He'd spoken quietly, confident that she couldn't hear him, and missed the sidelong look Buffy gave him

When they reached the door to the cellar they paused, Tom reaching up to take down a box of matches and a candle from a shelf. “This cellar is separate to the main one,” he explained. “It runs directly beneath Mrs Cole's private quarters and we need to keep our voices down.”

Buffy shrugged. “No talking. Sure. Lead on MacDougal,” She tugged on the back of the boy's cap she wore, tucking her shoulder-length hair out of sight.

“Duff,” said Tom, striking the match ineffectively against the side of the box.

“Huh?”

Tom frowned, concentrating on getting the match to light. It was much easier to cast a Lumos charm than deal with damp Muggle matches. The match flared to life and he flicked a glance over the top of the candle at Buffy's face. “The name is wrong. The actual quote is from Shakespeare's Macbeth and reads 'lay on MacDuff'.”

Buffy's face took on the glazed, faraway expression that Tom was beginning to recognize. Memories were coming back to her. “I remember covering that in a literature class once.” Her eyes took on a devious glitter and her tone became more teasing. “It's the play with the witches. Those witches were bad news, but they were nothing compared to the ones trying out for Sunnydale's cheerleader team.” She shot a glance at his hand. “If you can smell burning flesh, try checking your fingers, Tom.”

Realizing the match was burning down, Tom blew it out. Witches? Did Buffy know about magic and the Wizarding World? Or was she simply a Muggle romanticizing about magic? Tom took the opportunity to peer into her eyes, trying to figure her out, and getting absolutely nowhere as usual.

Buffy tilted her head, looking at the cellar steps meaningfully. “So you were saying... cellar, way out?”

***

Aware of Mrs Cole above their heads, neither spoke as they crossed the cellar. Tom guided the way to a small window just above ground level and the two used it to enter the side courtyard of the orphanage. They stood up, shooting wary glances at Mrs Cole's window before darting across the yard to the main gate.

“Mrs Cole never bothers to lock the gate after she's had a visitor,” Tom explained to Buffy as he opened the gate enough for them to slip through. He closed it behind them, making sure not to clang the metalwork, and then they were both in the street rapidly walking away from Wool's.

As they walked, Tom continually scanned the dark street around them. Buffy was doing much the same herself, but noted his vigilance. Was Tom expecting trouble? The street lay deserted around them, no vehicles passed, and the only thing she sensed on her Slaydar was Tom. Every time he stepped closer to her every fine hair on her arm tingled. Buffy wasn't sure if it was because she was aware of him as an attractive boy or if he wasn't quite human.

They'd walked in companionable silence for a while when Tom asked, “Did you hear anything interesting this afternoon whilst hiding in the cupboard under the stairs?”

Startled, Buffy struggled to keep her face blank and stalled for time. “What makes you think that I was eavesdropping?”

Tom gave a sarcastic snort and raised his brows. “Surely, you don't think I'll believe the termite nonsense you gave to Mrs Cole? Or were you actually leaving messages of love under the mop bucket for the grocer's boy to find?” His white teeth gleamed in the moonlight, his smile broadening at her dark glower.

“Great guess, Mr Snake-Pajamas.” She was so not going to admit to spying on Moody and Mortimer. “Robbie and I are planning on eloping and starting a business together.”

“And that will be a greengrocers, I suppose?” The smile left Tom's face and it became sharp and intent. “You were eavesdropping on the men from the Ministry, weren't you? What did you over hear them say?” He lowered his voice, allowing it to take on a darker and more commanding edge. “Tell me the truth.”

“They were talking about you,” Buffy replied, her voice dripping with sweetness. She didn't bother to wait for his reply, instead, she took a sudden right, and dived into an alleyway that ran between two rows of houses.

Tom had to hurry to catch up, his heart banging in his chest. Salazar! Had they discovered his Muggle-baiting plans? No, he reasoned, it was impossible they could know. Malfoy had paid for the boggart and then Tom had let him carry it through the Leaky Cauldron. There was no evidence leading back to him, so what had they said about him?

“Tell me...” he ordered. “Tell me what they said about me.”

“They said you were a jerk,” replied Buffy cheerfully.

Tom let out a long hiss of annoyance.

“And you can stop hissing at me, Tom Riddle.”

“I don't hiss,” snarled Tom, wondering why Buffy was able to shake off his influence so easily when so many others fell under his thrall. Some Muggles were very sensitive to his magic. Tom decided that Buffy was as sensitive as dragon hide. Frustrated, he raked a hand through his dark hair, ruffling his immaculate locks.

Buffy shot him a glance from under her eyelashes. “You do hiss. I've met snakes who don't have as many hissy fits as you do.”

Tom let out another involuntary hiss of anger. It translated as something rude in Parseltongue and he was very tempted to translate it when Buffy wrenched his arm. Annoyed at the way she took personal liberties with him, Tom jerked his arm back and scowled down at the petite blonde. Buffy pointed silently at the ground in front of his feet. He'd been about to walk into a large, muddy puddle.

“I don't have hissy fits!” he snapped, skirting around the puddle. He was angry. Angry at her for the ease she could make him lose his temper and angry at himself for losing control. When Tom finally glared at her, he found that she wasn't even looking in his direction.

They'd come to a place where two alleyways crossed, and Buffy's interest was on the alley to their left. He followed her gaze. It was dark down there, but the moonlight shone onto dark puddles, broken bricks, and thick patches of mud on the pathway. Further on, the alley wound between buildings, and the darkness was impenetrable. Anyone or anything could be down there.

Tom knew from past experience how dangerous Muggle streets were. He'd run into trouble here before and didn't wish to meet it again.

Buffy walked on. Putting their argument to one side, Tom asked, “How did you know about this short-cut?” The cut-through wasn't well known and only used by locals.

From behind him, came the sound of a splash as if someone had accidentally put a boot into a puddle. Were they being followed? He shot a look over his shoulder, seeing nothing but darkness, and then looked at Buffy. The girl continued to lead him unerringly towards the Town Hall and she gave no sign of hearing anything.

“I came across the alley last night. On my way back from the hospital,” she explained. “I sort of made an unexpected 'detour'.” Buffy didn't think detour was the right word to use for her vampire hunting adventure, but it was as close to the truth as she was prepared to get.

“Detour?” Tom picked up on the slight emphasis, looking at her sharply, trying to read her face.

“Um, yeah. I, sort of, got lost.” she replied softly. They'd come to the mouth of the alley and old habits kicked in, she checked the area before venturing out. “That's Stockwell Town Hall over there, isn't it?” She nodded to a large brick building on the opposite side of the street.

“It is,” replied Tom. “Any thoughts of how we can get in?” He scanned the Muggle building, examining the imposing front door, the tall sash windows, and then the smaller side entrance. There would be no magical wards in place and a simple Alohomora charm would unlock every door. It was a pity that he couldn't use it, but he didn't dare risk it. There was a Trace charm on all underage magic users and using magic during the summer holidays was banned. He'd need to use a non-magical, Muggle, way of getting in.

While Buffy went off to check the doors and windows, Tom waited in the shadows at the rear of the building. After a good while, Buffy came back to him admitting defeat.

“I've checked,” she said sourly to Tom, who'd crouched beneath one of the windows.“We're out of luck. They're all locked.”

Tom pointed to a roughly painted cellar door beneath the window. “Perhaps, you should look more carefully?”

Buffy crouched down beside him, giving the unlocked door a look of disbelief and then giving him a suspicious look. Tom's grin became impish. He lifted his hand, showing her the open padlock and the hairpin he'd used to pick the lock.

“It was far easier opening this padlock than breaking into Mrs Cole's office.” With those words, he grabbed the cellar door handle and hoisted the door upwards to reveal the dark hole beneath. When he looked back at Buffy, a genuine smile of pleasure lit up his face. “There's no need for Felix Felicis when you're as good as me.”

Distracted by a smile that gave her butterflies, Buffy forgot to ask who Felix Felicis was. Inwardly, she gave herself a little shake, reminding herself that she had too much going on in her life to think about boys. Wagging a finger at him she said, “Never brag that things are going easy, that's tempting Murphy!”

But Tom ignored her, smiling happily he lowered himself into the cellar and dropped out of sight. Buffy heard him land on something that rattled and rolled away beneath his feet. Tom grunted and cursed softly.

“It's full of coal!” he complained.

For a teenage boy, Tom was always spotlessly clean. Buffy guessed he wouldn't like his clothes getting full of coal dust. She heard him crunching around and then he called up to her, “Come on, I'll help you down.

She knew she didn't need his help, but it seemed churlish to refuse when he was so keen on playing knight in shining coal dust. She lowered herself into the cellar, allowing Tom to guide her onto the coal heap. When her feet made contact with the coal, large chunks rolled out from underfoot and Buffy lost her balance. She pitched forward, stopped from doing an embarrassing face plant only by Tom's sharp reflexes. Tom grabbed her, his warm hands on either side of her waist, steadying her until she regained her footing. Aware the way his touch was sending tingles throughout her body, Buffy stepped quickly away, embarrassed and flustered by her reaction.

“Um, thanks,” she half-whispered. She'd memories of another dark-haired man sharing intimate moments like this one with her - Angel. Buffy sucked in a fast breath. She hoped history wouldn't repeat itself and she'd find out that Tom was a murderous demon who needed slaying. She ducked her head, glad of the darkness covering her flushed face, and turned for the outline of a door in the far wall. “This way,” she said huskily.

“Wait!” Tom ordered, from his pocket he took out a candle and lit it. “I brought these from the orphanage,” he explained, holding up the candle to let its feeble light flicker across the coal cellar. “I knew we might need a light.”

“Cool. If you were a boy scout you'd get a badge for that.” Buffy climbed down the coal heap, sending lumps of coal skittering everywhere.

The door led onto a long, cold corridor that smelt of old books, mould, and mouse pee. Neither dallied, both eager to get away from the smell. They had just reached the door at the opposite end of the corridor, Tom's hand on the handle of the door, when Buffy yanked the back of his collar, almost making him choke.

“Salazar, girl! Are you mental? What-?”

“Look!” She pointed excitedly to a door in the corridor.

Tom pulled on his askew collar, smoothing it out before holding the candle closer to the door Buffy pointed at. Glinting in the candlelight was a brass door plaque bearing the words 'Records Office'. Buffy turned the handle and pushed the door open. Beyond was a windowless room and Tom stepped forward, holding up his candle. Along one side of the chamber were floor to ceiling shelves containing old ledgers and books. On the opposite side ran a banking of filing cabinets with more shelving above.

“Whoa! It's Giles heaven,” Buffy said softly taking in the sight of old books and the smell of parchment. Next to the door was a Bakelite switch and Buffy pressed the toggle down. There was a loud click and inside the room a single overhead bulb flickered before casting a sickly yellow light.

“Giles was your old teacher,” Tom remarked. He blew his candle out and moved to the first filing cabinet. He continued, “There's nothing wrong with having a thirst for knowledge. If you don't wish to marry Robbie the grocer....”

Buffy rolled her eyes at him.

“...you would do well to heed Giles and continue your education.”

“You are so jealous of Robbie,” snarked Buffy, going over to the ledgers and pulling the first one from the shelf. She squinted at the cramped cursive Victorian writing – accounts of some sort – and replaced the ledger back on the shelf.

“I really don't care,” Tom said. “It was merely general advice.” He missed the dark glare Buffy gave him as he pulled out the top cabinet drawer and withdrew a thick file. He scanned it briefly before muttering, “Rental properties,” and moving on to the next cabinet.

The two of them went through the cabinets and the accounts ledgers, finally moving to boxes of files. They went through them slowly. Finally, Tom said, “Ah!”

“You've found something?” Buffy brushed at a cobweb clinging to her face, leaving a streak of dirt behind. Tom waved a thick file at her.

“I found the Wool's orphanage files and this is mine.” He took out an old brown envelope and opened it up to slide out the contents. There was a wedding photo of a young, rather plain, girl staring adoringly at a very handsome youth who stared into the camera lens smugly.

“You can tell he is your father, you look just like him,” Buffy said, taking the picture from his fingers. “You can see it's a real love match.”

“Hmm,” replied Tom absently, looking at the second picture. This one showed a photo taken a few months later. His mother, Tom noticed the cast to her eyes, faced the camera proudly with a hand beneath her bulging stomach. His father stood a little behind her with his hand on his wife's shoulder. Tom held the picture closer to his face, taking in the glazed look in the Muggle's eyes.

“She looks happy to be pregnant,” said Buffy, standing on tip-toe to peer over his arm and see the photo. “She must have been looking forward to holding you.”

Tom looked at the girl's expression. Buffy was right, his mother did look happy. What had happened to them? Had his father died? Why hadn't she gone to St Mungo's for help? Going to a Muggle orphanage to give birth had put both their lives at risk. His eyes moved over to the image of his father again, taking in the man's unfocused expression. His father was a Muggle and his mother a witch. A horrible feeling grew in his stomach, and Tom knew that he needed more time to peruse the contents of the file, to see if more clues would come to light.

“We need to go,” he said abruptly, taking the wedding photo from her and pushing both photos into the envelope. “The longer we are here, the greater the risk of being found.” Folding the file (careful not to bend the photographs) Tom placed it into an inside coat pocket.

Once they'd made sure there was nothing out of place, they left the room and went back along the corridor. In the coal cellar Tom insisted on giving Buffy a leg up. Once she was safely above ground, he jumped up, grabbed hold of the cellar door frame, and began to pull himself up. Seeing him struggling, Buffy helped by grabbing the back of his trousers and yanking him upwards. She must have pulled a little too hard because suddenly Tom shot forward and knocked her to the ground.

For a long and embarrassing moment, Tom lay sprawled on top of Buffy before he leaped away with the speed of a scalded cat. He glared, hissing at her, “Mental, you're totally mental!”  
Shame-faced, he stuck his hand down the back of his trousers and pulled his underwear out from between his buttocks.

Buffy exploded with laughter at his stricken face. “The wedgie was totally accidental. And stop hissing at me and saying I'm mental.”

“Hiss? I'll do more than hiss if you ever do that to me again,” Tom snarled. Already he could feel his magic crackling around him, magical power that normally intimidated Muggles or Wizards alike, Buffy didn't appear in the least bit intimidated – she just grinned at him all the wider. He scowled, turning his back on her while he shut the cellar door, and replaced the padlock. “There, all done. No one will know we've been here.”

“Tom,” Buffy said very softly, no longer laughing.

Still feeling sore at what she'd done to him, he ignored her. Keeping his back facing her to show his ongoing displeasure, he felt inside his pocket, making sure the file hadn't become dislodged when he'd fallen.

“Tom!” Buffy's voice was more urgent.

Tom whipped around, the words 'do be quiet' dying away when he noticed the figures stepping from the shadows to surround them. It seemed that he and Buffy had run into trouble after all.


	13. The Sleeping Monster

A cloud slipped over the moon and the shadows at the side of Stockwell Town Hall deepened ominously. Tom watched as the figures came towards him. This was no chance encounter, whoever these were, they had followed them and then lain-in-wait.

Tom's hand automatically went to his wand pocket and then stilled. He didn't have the wand with him and, even if he did, he wouldn't be able to use it without serious repercussions. He was not only an underage Wizard but these were Muggles. If he used magic against them the Trace would notify the Ministry, he'd be accused of breaking the International Statute of Secrecy and face expulsion from Hogwarts. These days, with Grindelwald's ever-looming threat, the Ministry was twitchy and unlikely to show leniency to an orphan boy with no Pureblood connections to speak up for him.

Tom's nostrils flared. There was only one way to deal with this situation and the outcome would be messy. He thought back to previous fist-fights and the savage joy he'd felt as his fists pounded into another's flesh and made them cry with pain. His lips twitched upwards with a sly smile. Maybe, a Muggle fight wouldn't be so repulsive after all? A surge of anticipation ran through him. It had been a long time since he'd fought like a Muggle boy, but as long as he kept his head, he felt sure that he'd win.

The ringleader stepped closer and Tom recognised the burly shoulders and large, protruding ears of his old nemesis.

“Billy Stubbs,” Tom said flatly, and Billy grinned back at him.

Billy was two years older than Tom and he'd left the orphanage to take a job at the nearby docks. He knew the boy well – too well. The two of them had a long history and none of it pleasant. Billy had always been big for his age and as a youngster, Tom's love of books and quiet demeanour made him a target for boys like Billy. The bullying, both physical and mental, had persisted for years until Tom had learned how to use his magic and teach the bullies lessons they wouldn't forget. It seemed that Billy was dreaming of revenge.

The moon came out from behind the cloud enabling Tom to identify the rest of Billy's gang. “Albert Jenkins, Eric Wilde, and...”

Tom's gaze drifted behind them to the boy holding Buffy. He had one arm around her waist, holding her close to him, while his other hand pressed a glinting blade to her pale throat. Tom scowled when he saw that. Buffy was with him and therefore should be classed as his until he chose to discard her. These ex-orphanage boys knew better than to touch something that belonged to Tom Riddle. He glared at the youth holding her. Who was he? He had his head down, and the over-large flat cap he wore cast a shadow over his face. Tom was sure he knew him. Then the boy raised his head and the moonlight caught the sharp curve of a hooked nose.

“...Percy Long.”

It was no surprise to Tom that Percy had grabbed Buffy and put a blade to her throat. Percy had a fascination with blades and torturing girls was his speciality. In the orphanage he pinched and bullied the youngest while the older ones fell victim to his perverse sexual nature. Tom's eyes flicked down to Buffy's face. Her face was curiously calm considering a blade was at her throat and only her eyes - darting from one boy to the other - betrayed interest in their attackers.

Once again she was showing signs of being different. Her behaviour was odd. Did she not realise their danger? Or was she one of the very few who could keep her head under pressure? Tom filed away her reaction to contemplate later, his focus now on Billy Stubbs who was grinning gleefully at him.

“Fancy finding you 'ere, Tom the Marvellous Freak Riddle,” Billy jeered. “Wonder what that fancy school of yours would say if they knew they were harbourin' a common little thief.” He laughed, a high-pitched noise that sounded like a hyena.

“I haven't stolen anything that isn't mine and I doubt any of my professors would care,” Tom replied easily.

He continued focussing mainly on Billy and the gangly boy called Eric as they were the most dangerous. The smallest member of the gang, Albert, was a coward and Tom knew that he'd run at the slightest sign the fight wasn't going their way. He glanced at Percy. The boy had pulled Buffy in closer to him and was whispering into her ear. Buffy's face was blank, but her body was stiff with revulsion. A hot rage boiled in Tom. The anger he always experienced when he'd found another orphan touching his belongings, but magnified tenfold.

Billy glanced back at Buffy and then to Tom. “Yer got a girlfriend now, Freaky? One who likes dressin' as a boy.” He laughed derisively and his gang members sycophantically followed suit.

Buffy muttered in protest, “I might be dressed as a boy, but I still look way cooler than any of you.”

The point of the blade bit deeper into her neck, on the verge of drawing blood, and the idiot holding her breathed heavily into her ear. She shuddered, stopping herself from throwing him off and stomping on him. He was human, she knew she had to be careful not to hurt humans or, at least, not kill them.

She realised that she was more upset with herself than him. Why hadn't she investigated those shadows and noises she'd seen and heard in the alley earlier? That was a total rookie mistake. The least she should have done was hang around to see if the shadowy shapes followed them. If they had, it would have been easy enough to make a detour and lose them. Instead, she'd ignored them because her Slayer senses told her that they weren't 'demons' and that had been a bad mistake. People were capable of violence and evil deeds, just like demons were.

Buffy went back to assessing their attackers. From where she stood, she could see that Billy Stubbs (he must be the rabbit guy Martha had told her about) held a short, wooden club down by his side. The weapon was hidden from Tom's view but not hers. The other boys appeared to be weaponless, although they still might have blades or something worse, like a gun, in their pockets.

She looked over at Tom and met his eye. She'd spotted a flash of anger in his face before, but now the implacable, handsome mask was fixed firmly back in place. Would he be able to talk his way out of this? She'd no way of knowing if he was capable of holding his own in a fight or not.

“She isn't my girlfriend.” Tom replied, his tone bored. He doubted his denial would mean they'd release her and focus on him. It had been the same at the orphanage, anyone in his company had made them a target for them.

“What's she doin' gaddin' round London wiv a freak like you, then?” Billy tugged at one of his large ears thoughtfully. “Wearin' boy's stuff an' breakin' into buildings, she must be a freak an' all.”

Affronted, Buffy yelled, “Hey! You're the one who looks like they came from a circus, Dumbo!”

To her chagrin, no one except Percy - who pressed the knife harder into her throat and panted - paid her any attention.

Tom made a point of looking down his aristocratic nose at Billy. “Since we're speaking of misdeeds. I heard you were going to enjoy his Majesty's hospitality after pilfering from one of the dock warehouses. Why aren't you enjoying the comforts of a prison cell?”

“Couldn't prove nothin'.” Billy grin came to him less readily now. He was irritated Tom knew his private business. He tapped the club against his leg, reminding himself that these days Tom the Freak was still a schoolboy and he was a grown man who answered to nobody. He inched forward, seeking an opening, a moment of distraction, so he could get in the first hit.

At the same time, Tom took several side-steps away from the building. Eric mirrored his movements, Albert by his side. Believing that Tom was attempting to edge away, Billy's smirk became wider and more confident. The freak was surrounded, there was nowhere for him to run to, and the girl couldn't help him.

“It's not what yer know, but who yer know.” He tapped the side of his nose knowingly. “I've friends in 'igh places.”

Tom sneered, “Rather like your rabbit.”

Billy yelled, “FREAK!” and lunged at Tom. The wooden club swung. Tom ducked to avoid it and felt the hairs on the top of his head stir as the weapon swiped over him. Billy, having over-reached and now off-balance, staggered. Tom rose up, reached for the older boy's wrist, yanked the weapon free from out of his grasp, and kicked out. Billy fell, clumsily.

But Tom's decision to grab the club left his side open and vulnerable. Eric was instantly on him, driving a series of hard punches into Tom's back and stomach that had him doubling and gasping for air. More blows rained down. Tom bit back on the pain, sucked in a great lungful of air, and swung the club. It arced upward and slammed Eric in the jaw.

Whack! The boy fell, hitting the cellar door before sliding down it – knocked out cold.

“You little freak!” yelled Billy, on his feet, his face screwed up with rage. He lunged once more for Tom, sending a hard driver that skimmed the side of Tom's cheek.

Meanwhile, Percy was watching the fight with mounting excitement. Taking advantage of his distraction, Buffy stepped back, ramming the heel of her boot down Percy's shin. With a loud yelp of surprise, he took an involuntary step back and then stabbed the blade at Buffy's throat.  
Her sharp Slayer reflexes saved her. She grabbed the arm, her Slayer strength crushing flesh, sinew, and muscle beneath her fingers. Percy's scream echoed around the passageway, the knife fell with a clatter to the cobbles, and Buffy released him.

“Sod this!” Percy said, tears of pain in his eyes, snot running from his nose, and clutching his arm to his chest. He took off, half-stumbling down the passageway in his eagerness to get away.

Buffy snatched up the knife and flung it high onto the roof of the building. She heard it rattle on the tiles as it rolled to the gutter. She hoped it would stay up there for a long time.

Footsteps running towards her had her twisting and dropping into a low fighting crouch, only to see a wide-eye Albert run past her, blood pouring from his nose.

The others had moved out of sight, but Buffy could still hear them fighting. With Percy and Albert gone there were two attackers left. Worried Tom was out of sight and taking a beating, Buffy ran towards the fighting. In her haste, she almost tripped over a body lying in the deep shadows by the cellar door. It was the blonde boy that Tom had called Eric. She jumped over him, hearing him moaning softly as she landed.

Rounding the corner, she found herself in a cobbled yard. On the far side, unidentifiable in the darkness, someone lay on the ground while his assailant struck him with a club.

“Tom!” Buffy shrieked out. Each time the club struck there was a sickening splat. She darted across the yard. If this didn't stop, someone was going to become seriously injured or die.

The club rose up to swing again. This time someone stopped it. It was Buffy, holding on to it in grim determination. Tom glared down at her, his face stark white with temper, eyes seeming to gleam red for a moment before the illusion disappeared.

“It's over,” Buffy said quietly, her hands still holding onto the club.

Rage, violence, and something else, prickled in the air around them. Buffy watched Tom fight to suppress his anger and regain control of himself. The Buffy she had been before, the one who'd lived before the building collapsed would have been terrified by what she'd just seen Tom do. But the new Buffy, the one who'd dug her way from a fallen building, was battle-hardened. She'd dreamed the dreams of Slayers and seen how the mildest-mannered people become violent when forced them to fight for their lives.

The boy on the ground groaned, his hand rising to the mess that was his face. Buffy let go of the club and stepped away from Tom. In the distance, she could hear someone whistling, and she frowned, looking over in that direction.

Billy Stubbs moaned and rolled onto his side. Tom scowled, and the prickling sensation in the air grew stronger again.

“Tom,” she asked, drawing his attention from the boy struggling on the ground. “Are you alright?” There was blood splattered across his face and she thought his jaw might be swollen.

He jerked his head at her question and Buffy searched those dark eyes. The anger had gone, replaced by confusion. Tom looked like a man who'd woken from a nightmare and wasn't quite sure what was real and what wasn't. She thought he might not have heard what she asked, but he gave a brief nod.

“Good. Then we need to dispose of the evidence,” Buffy pointed at the blood-covered piece of wood he was still gripping. “In case the police get involved.”

Tom didn't reply. He continued watching her, weaving slightly on his feet. The way he rocked from one foot to the other reminded Buffy of a snake, one of those that emerged from a basket and couldn't decide whether to bite the snake charmer or be charmed by them. Was he in shock? Buffy felt relieved this wasn't a vampire attack. Finding out vampires existed would have definitely given him something to be shocked about

The whistle came again - a long note and definitely closer. Billy Stubbs rolled onto his front with a loud groan and slowly began to rise to his knees. Over at the corner of the Town Hall, the blonde who'd been slumped in front of the cellar was on his feet and leaning against the wall. Buffy thought he and Billy were too beat-up to restart the fight, but they needed to get-.

“We need to go,” Tom said, as though he'd read her mind. He swung the club, throwing it over the roof of the stables, and into the abandoned factory yard behind. Then touched the back of his bloodied hand to touch the front of his jacket. Buffy heard the crackle of paper and knew he was checking to see if he still had his mother's file.

The next moment, he surprised her by taking her hand, pulling her along as he strode past the blonde boy and saying, “How fast can you run?”

“Fast,” said Buffy confidently.

“Good,” replied Tom, “because that whistling is a policeman calling for reinforcements and they're coming in this direction.”

They stopped only once, to check the street was clear, before running for the alley they'd walked down earlier. Tom dropped her hand as they entered the narrow ginnel that wound its way through the densely packed buildings and took the lead. He set a fast pace and they didn't stop running until they were back at the orphanage.

They managed to slip back inside and up to their rooms without incident. Buffy going straight to her room while Tom used the bathroom to wash away the blood coating his hands and splattered on his face. Then hurried back to his room, tearing off his clothes to replace the with his pyjamas, stowing the file out of sight, and spreading books over his bed. If Mrs Cole had heard them and came upstairs to check, he would say that he couldn't sleep and doing late-night revision.

Sure enough, there came a tap on his bedroom door. Tom raked a hand through his hair, tousling it, before answering it.

“What's going on Tom?” Mrs Cole asked. The thin woman was dressed in a thick, padded dressing-gown and red circles in her cheeks made her look a little tipsy. It made Tom wonder if the earlier caller had brought her a bottle of sherry or gin as a deal sweetener.

“Mrs Cole?” Tom opened the door as wide as he could, letting her see that no one else was in there with him.

“What are you doing awake? I heard noises up here and find you awake at this time.” She looked suspicious, peering around him to scan his room before casting a glance in the direction of Buffy's room.

“I'm very sorry that I disturbed you. As you know, I'll be taking my exams when I go back to Hogwarts and I decided to do a little studying as I couldn't sleep. I dropped my books when I took them out the wardrobe. That was the noise you heard.” He gave her an apologetic smile, letting the dimples in his cheeks show, and faking bashful embarrassment. Mrs Cole didn't like or trust him, but she enjoyed the instances of his obsequiousness as much as any one else.

Mrs Cole's eyes were on his unmade bed. “You were in bed, studying?”

He nodded. “I know it is rather late. These exams worry me. If I don't pass, I won't be allowed to continue my education there and Professor Dumbledore will be very disappointed.” In actual fact, Dumbledore would be glad to see him gone. Mainly because the old coot in front of him had told Dumbledore about his misuse of childish magic and put the professor on edge around him. However, Mrs Cole didn't know that Dumbledore didn't like him and Tom had no intention of telling her.

Mrs Cole gathered her thick, frumpy dressing-gown about her. “This won't do. You're making too much noise and others are trying to sleep. Buffy is such a frail girl, she's not used to late nights or any excitement.”

“Yes, she is quite frail,” Tom agreed dryly. “No late nights or excitement for her.”

“And I don't want you botherin' her with too much noise.”

“No, that wouldn't do,” smiled Tom politely, “Well, since I don't want to upset Buffy, I'll bid you a goodnight.” He closed the door and leaned his back against it, listening to the woman's footsteps as they died away and thinking not about his schoolbooks, but Buffy and the file that he'd found on his mother.


	14. Breakfast at Wools

The children in Cole's orphanage were not allowed to take toys or books into the dining room. Putting a book onto the table and reading it during mealtimes would earn the miscreant an instant scolding and a repeat offender would be punished by giving them more chores.

As far as Tom Riddle was concerned, the rules were made for others and none applied to him. Of course, the staff would not have agreed with him. However, Tom had a way around the rule of no books in the dining hall. All his Hogwarts books carried an anti-Muggle, disillusionment charm on them and that enabled him to read them in peace. He could sit there all day if he wished and neither staff nor resident would notice him – a luxury in a busy orphanage.

The morning after his expedition to the Town Hall, he was sat eating his breakfast with 'Hogwarts, A History' propped up in front of him and feeling at peace with the world. He'd gained more clues to his parentage in the last few hours than he had in the last five years. There was still more research to do, but he felt sure he'd soon be able to find his magical family. With a small sigh of pleasure, he lifted the cup to his lips, his eyes still glued to the page, when something destroyed his peace.

The whole table jumped into the air as a tray was slammed down onto it. Tea spilt over the sides of his cup, down his sleeve and drops fell onto the pristine pages of his book. With a frown, he looked up to find Buffy had thrown her breakfast tray down on the opposite side of the table. She was in the process of dragging a chair across the floor with a noisy screech before placing it at his table.

Tom shot a fast look at Mrs Cole, who'd stopped in the dining hall to speak to Martha. The thin woman was sat, looking over in their direction, the scowl of disapproval on her face calculated to strike fear into the heart of any child. Buffy either hadn't noticed the dark glare or she was pretending not to have seen her. She simply threw herself down in the chair opposite him and started forking scrambled eggs onto her toast.

Tom decided that she hadn't seen him and must have thought the table was empty. The charm on the books wasn't a particularly strong one, a magic-user would see through it, but Buffy was a Muggle even if she–.

“So what's the plannage for today, Tom?” Buffy asked and took a bite of toast. She chewed it slowly, her hazel eyes fixed on him.

Taken aback that she could see him, Tom looked over to a group of children sat on a nearby table and tried catching their eyes. No one took any notice of him so the spell was still working. Tom turned back to the girl sat opposite him. She sat calmly, chewing her food, and watching him with a faint smirk on her face. It was as if she thought he was the weird one here and not her.

Surprised that she could see through the charm he might be, but he quickly rallied. Replying acidly, “I believe that in most polite societies it is customary to greet a person first before launching into a conversation. The phrase you are looking for is 'Good morning, Riddle'. Perhaps, I would then reply with, 'It's a pleasure to see you, Summers. How are you today?'”

Unfortunately, she took that to mean that he was actually interested in hearing her answer.

Buffy put her toast down and began her tirade. “Oh, my day was going well until 5.30 am,” she replied, her mouth turned downwards. “That's when Martha barged into my room and shook me awake.”

She cocked a finger at him for him to come closer. He obediently leaned in, their heads were so close that he could see each individual speckle of brown in her green eyes.

Buffy asked, “Do I look like I eat worms?”

If he'd been feeling uneasy before at being so close to her, now he was thrown completely off-balance. “What?” he asked.

Looking vindicated at the response, Buffy leaned back and prodded her eggs with her fork. “That's what I asked Martha when she told me the early bird gets the worm. I said, 'Do I look like I eat worms?'” Buffy huffed with annoyance and then sipped her tea, grimacing at the taste.  
“Not that it did me any good. She dragged me off to the nursery and dumped a wet, screaming child in my arms and told me that she needed changing!” Buffy shuddered. “I'm traumatised for life. I think I need therapy.”

Tom almost laughed out loud at her face. Buffy's plan to get on the good side of the staff had backfired. The way she cooed over a stranger's brats as she did, he wasn't surprised they'd eventually given her nursery chores.

“You have only yourself to blame,” he said, feeling smug. “You made them believe you like babies by cuddling that one when you arrived for as long as you did. I knew at the time you were overdoing it.”

Buffy gave an unladylike snort. “Passing coochie-coo interest only. Babies and me are totally non-mixy.” She pouted, obviously hoping for sympathy and whined, “She puked in my hair!”

When Tom refused to commiserate, Buffy picked up her teaspoon and stirred her tea noisily, glaring at him as though it was his fault.“I was made to do two diaper changes.”

“Diapers?” Tom had been forced into helping in the nursery once or twice and couldn't recall what a diaper was. From the look of revulsion on Buffy's face, he might be better off not knowing.

“Um, guess that would be a nappy to you Brits. They have pins and poop in them. I had to scrape and soak, scrape and soak, and there were still bits in it,” Buffy said, scraping her eggs into a pile on her plate.

Tom stared at his plate, appetite gone. “This isn't a fit topic for the breakfast table, Buffy,” he said sourly.

“I asked her,” Buffy continued, ignoring him, “ I said, why have you dragged me in here at the crack of dawn to change poopy diapers. You know what she said?”

Tom mentally sighed. Knowing that no matter what his feelings were he was going to find out.

“She said that it would be good experience for me to have for when I'm married and the babies start appearing. Not gonna happen.”

Tom watched her fork eggs into her mouth and silently appraised her. The most beautiful girl he knew was Walburga Black, an elegant Pureblood witch with impeccable table manners. Buffy didn't have the same heavy-lidded, dark beauty of Walburga, but he conceded that, for a Muggle, she was pretty. Tom wondered if there might even be a Veela in her pedigree somewhere. That would explain not only her blonde good looks but also why the disillusionment charm hadn't affected her. His continued eyeing her thoughtfully and wondered if she was fishing for a compliment. It wouldn't be the first time a witch had wanted him to sit up and take notice her.

“Why not?” he finally asked, “Isn't the aim of every girl to marry and start a family?”

He didn't know a lot about Muggle courtship and wasn't interested, but at Hogwarts he'd overheard witches discussing their marriage prospects. He knew that many of the Purebloods had matches made for them by their families and married straight out of school, tying themselves and their magic to another for life. It was one Pureblood tradition that Tom had no intention of following.

He was Tom Riddle and once he left school would become Lord Voldemort. He didn't need anyone. There were far more important things to do in life than seek a witch to suck the life out of him. Tom's gaze drifted to Buffy's lips, watching as her tongue peeked out and licked away crumbs. With an embarrassing clatter, he dropped his cup back into its saucer and his cheeks flushed.

Luckily, Buffy didn't notice his discomfort. She'd developed that inward look in her eyes that she got when a memory came to her. “I don't think I'll live long enough to marry and have kids.”

The words were said so quietly said that he'd a feeling they weren't meant to be heard. He tilted his head, the dark tangle of hair falling over his temple as he considered her. If she believed she'd die early it didn't appear to bother her.

She looked up, caught him watching her and flashed him a wide smile. “I told Martha that now I've seen the contents of a diaper, I'm put off babies for life.”

With a shake of his head at her mood swings, Tom continued with his breakfast, pushing scrambled eggs onto his fork.

“Do you like eggs, Tom?”

He stopped, his fork hovering in mid-air, and eyed her with suspicion. “Why?”

She pointed her fork at him. “Those aren't real eggs. They're powdered and came in a packet. Dried out eggs, can you believe it?”

He made a small non-committal reply. Food in the orphanage had always been plain and unpalatable. He hadn't known how bad it was until he'd eaten his first meal at Hogwarts and realised what he was missing out on. The thought of Hogwarts and magic made him realise that he was giving too much attention to someone who was a Muggle. Tom turned his attention to his book. Maybe if Buffy saw him reading, she'd get the message and go away.

After a few minutes of silence, Tom gave up attempting to read. He'd read the same passage several times over, and still none of the words made sense. He was simply too aware of Buffy. The way she ate her breakfast, white teeth tearing at the bread and licking her lips. Tom decided that her table manners must be terrible for him to keep watching her as he did. Without realising it, he'd shut his book, and sat blatantly staring at her.

Undisturbed by his scrutiny, Buffy merely swallowed, and asked, “So what's the sitch?”

Tom put his elbows on the table, something that he'd not done since his first days at Hogwarts, and leaned across the table towards her. “I have absolutely no idea what language you're speaking.”

Buffy rolled her eyes and smirked. “Guessing that Mrs Scold-Face hasn't spoken to you?”

Tom looked over to where the thin woman sat drinking tea and chatting to other members of Wool's staff. “Mrs Cole has yet to see me.”

“Ah, have you been hiding out because of your swollen jaw?” she asked.

“Sort of,” he replied evasively. Tom's hand stroked the left side of his face. He'd been lucky most of the bruising was on his body and not his face, otherwise, he would have a lot of explaining to do. As it was, if anyone questioned him, he'd claim that he'd had an argument with a door.

“Coley volunteered you to come with.”

When he made no reply just raised a querying eyebrow, she huffed, “Try to keep up, Tom-Tom. I'll translate into Tweed for you. Mrs Cole kindly volunteered your services to me.”

“My services?”

“Yeah. I need to go to the hotel where Mom and I were staying before we were caught in the blast. The hotel said that if I don't claim our stuff they are gonna throw it into the street.” Buffy looked sour, until she looked back at him and grinned. “Mrs Cole volunteered you to be my very own pack mule.”

Tom's nostrils flared as he shot a death glare at the thin woman. “Bitch.” The word was not one that he normally used in mixed company, but Buffy choked with laughter and almost dropped her cup, making him feel better.

When she smiled at him, Tom found himself smiling along with her, united in their dislike of a common enemy.


	15. The Rival

“Ello, mate!”

Tom Riddle winced at the raucous voice. He placed the plate he'd been drying down on the worktop and turned to face Robbie, the grocer's boy.

Robbie was a tall and very gangly eighteen-year-old whose bad squint in one eye kept him out of the army. He had a mop of unruly carrot-coloured hair, a face full of freckles, and a massive Adam's apple. Robbie was also extremely friendly and well-liked by most people. Tom wasn't most people.

“Where do I put 'em?” Robbie asked, gesturing with the box of vegetables he was holding. his eyes darting around the kitchen.

Tom's eyes narrowed, suspecting that he wasn't looking for a place to set his vegetable box down but for Buffy. He'd seen the boy mooning over her like a gormless oaf.

“Just put them over there, if you would,” he replied curtly, pointing towards the pantry door. He watched the boy stomp across the kitchen in his large work boots and when Robbie turned to face him, Tom pasted on his most friendly and open expression. “It's Robbie, isn't it?Would you like a glass of water? It's rather hot today and it must be thirsty work delivering all those boxes.”

“Oh, ta. I wouldn't say no.”

Tom rinsed a glass, filled it with cold water from the tap, and then passed it over with a friendly smile.

“Would you like me to fetch Martha?” he asked solicitously, drying another plate and watching Robbie gulp the water down and then wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. “She's about somewhere. Buffy normally deals with drying the dishes, but I've taken over her chore while she's changing to go out.”

“No, me Dad sends a bill at the end o' the month.” Robbie paused and then went an unfortunate shade of red that clashed with his orange hair. “Are you friends wiv Buffy? Only I told me Ma about her and she said I could ask her to tea on Sunday.”

'”Oh,” replied Tom, looking down at the plate he was in the middle of drying. Although he'd expected Robbie's interest in Buffy and encouraged him to confide in him, the coil of hot anger that writhed inside his gut took him by surprise.

Ask her to tea? An image of Buffy smiling at Robbie and accepting his invite almost had him losing control of his magic. He sucked in a deep breath, pulling in his magic and anger and burying it in a place deep inside him. Now was not the time to lose control. He needed to remember the lessons the older Slytherins had taught him.

His face kept carefully blank, Tom put down the plate and asked, “Do you think that's wise?

Robbie's face became stony, Tom quickly added. “I am sure Buffy would leap at the chance...only...” His expression turned from open and friendly to questioning and concerned. “Would your mother really want the daughter of a murderer in her house?”

“Ehh?!”

“Oh, please don't say anything, or let it put you off.” Tom lowered his voice, “Buffy seems a very nice girl to speak to, It's her mother who is a bad lot.”

“She's a murderer?” Robbie looked stricken.

“It's why she's in here,” Tom explained, letting his voice become lower and convincing. “They didn't know I was in the corridor but I overheard Mrs Cole and Martha talking about the case. Her mother brutally stabbed her husband to death in a fit of jealous rage. Apparently, he'd been having a torrid love affair with a well known Hollywood actress called...” Tom cast around for the name of an actress. It had been ages since he'd bothered with Muggle movies, but, like creating a potion, the details were important. “Um, I think it was Joan Crawford.”

“Blimey!”

“Shh!” Tom looked around the kitchen as if worried someone might be listening in. Then he beckoned for Robbie to come closer. The gangly boy obediently shuffled over.

“The way Joyce Summers tried to dispose of the evidence of her crime,” said Tom, “was truly awful.”

Robbie's eyes widened and his gigantic Adam's apple bobbed up and down in his throat. “What,” he croaked, “what did she do?”

“She used acid,” replied Tom. “Her husband had a barrel stored as he was a movie director and he used it for, erm, filming. Buffy's mother dragged her husband's body into their garage, threw his body into the barrel and left it until it dissolved. Then Joyce took Buffy and caught a ship over here to escape the scene of the crime. The police caught her, brought Buffy here, and put her mother into a lunatic asylum.”

“Whoa,” Robbie had gone pale. “It's like something out a film.”

Tom nodded. “It is a Tragedy. Poor Buffy, she pretends her mother is in a normal hospital, but she really isn't. It's a place for people who are criminally insane and a danger to society.”

“Insane?” repeated Robbie. His large Adam's apple bounced up and down as he gulped. “Me Ma will go mad 'erself if I take 'er 'ome.”

Tom gave him a knowing look. “Best not. You know what they say... The fruit doesn't fall far from the tree.”

Robbie placed the empty glass on the counter. “Yer right there. Thanks for the warnin'. It just goes to show, dunnit, you never can tell.”

“Exactly,” said Tom, a smirk on his handsome face. “It's always the most innocent and charming ones you need to watch out for.”


	16. The Boggart On The Bus

Buffy knew persuading the boggart to go to the hotel could take a while. With that in mind, she asked Tom to swap chores - she'd wash the evening dishes if he'd do the breakfast ones. It didn't surprise her that he accepted, he'd have been crazy not to, there were always more pots and pans to wash in the evening than at breakfast. When Tom set off for the kitchen, she went upstairs to deal with the boggart.

Up in her room, Buffy knelt and pulled out a cardboard box from under the bed. Inside the box was her gas mask. Buffy threw the mask under the bed, hoping the Germans hadn't planned a gas attack against London today, as she'd another use for the box.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the wardrobe, Buffy called out, “Here little boggarty, boggart,” in the same sing-song voice that she might use to call a pet.

As soon as the boggart scratched on the wooden door, she opened it, expecting it to dive out. This time there was no sign of it. Had it read her mind? Every other time she called to it, it shot from the closet and zoomed around the ceiling excitedly.

“Come on little...” she paused, about to say boggart when another name came to her, “...Spikey.”

She'd no idea why but that name felt familiar to her. Why? Where had she heard it before?

The room faded and in her mind's eye, Buffy saw a man - a vampire. He wore a long black duster coat that swirled around his calves as he strode towards her. His hair bleached blonde, bright blue eyes, sharp cheekbones, and he wore a cocky and irritating smirk.

The memory faded and Buffy smiled. She'd a feeling that this vampire would be totally insulted to find out that she'd named a boggart after him. Spike, another face, another memory. That was saying those memories were real. Had she ever known a vampire called Spike?

She blinked away her thoughts and brought herself back to reality. A reality where she as trying to lure a supernatural creature from a closet so that she could take it on a ride on the bus. Her life was definitely full of the weird.

“Come on Little Spikey. I gonna need you to climb in the box so that we can go to the hotel. There'll be lots of people in there to scare. Like that evil hotel manager who threatened to throw our stuff into the street.” Buffy really hoped that Little Spikey would scare him witless.

The boggart floated slowly to the front of the closet, its big round eyes peeking at her inquisitively.

“See here's the box.” Buffy pointed to the empty box that she'd placed in front of her. “You need to climb in there and keep very quiet so when we go outside...”

The boggart shook its head and backed away. The thought of going out into the open during daylight terrifying it.

“You'll be hidden inside the dark box,” Buffy explained. She picked up the box and showed it to it. “See? Just don't make a noise or let anyone see you until we get to the hotel. Once we're there, I'll find a dark spot to release you.”

Buffy thought it was a shame that she couldn't tell Tom about the boggart and her boggart planting plans. She had a feeling that he'd approve. Despite his bookworm exterior, it was obvious that he had a penchant for mischief. He'd already impressed her with his lock picking skills and it would be handy to have him break into the manager's room for her.

The boggart bumped against her arm with its face.

“I know you're cute,” said Buffy, “but I can't keep you. I don't live here and the orphanage kids are having a bad enough time as it is. I don't want you adding to their nightmares.”

Now it hovered, its wide eyes gazing into hers pleadingly. She knew exactly what it was trying to do, it wanted her to change her mind and keep it.

“I'm sorry, I can't let you stay.”

Tears welled up in its eyes.

Buffy hardened her heart and pointed at the box. “Nope, I can't. Little Spikey, please don't make this difficult for me. You need to go inside the box.”

The boggart gave her a heartbroken look as it slowly descended into the box. Once safely inside, Buffy closed the lid and wrapped a piece of string around the whole thing to keep it shut. The boggart pushed on the lid and started scratching at the sides of the box.

“Shh. Keep quiet until we get to the hotel. Once we're somewhere safe I'll open the box.” Hoping the boggart would do as she'd asked, Buffy looped the gas mask box's string handle over her shoulder and went off to find Tom.

…

Tom wasn't in the hall waiting for her as they'd planned, so Buffy continued down the corridor to the kitchen. As she grew closer, she heard the low murmur of voices and guessed someone must have delayed Tom. She listened closer, it was a boy's voice and he didn't sound like one of the younger kids.

Opening the kitchen door, she found Tom leaning against the kitchen counter and talking to the grocer's boy, Robbie. Although he wasn't the type she'd date, he'd been fun to talk to once he'd realised she didn't live next door to Roy Rogers and Errol Flynn.

“Hi, Robbie.”

The blood drained from Robbie's face and he took a step back. “Buffy!” He shot Tom a worried look. Tom merely smiled faintly and Robbie went on, “Er, me ma's waitin' for me!”

With those words, he turned away so fast that he almost stumbled over his own feet. Then darted through the kitchen door, looked back over his shoulder at Buffy, and tripped over a child's tricycle.

As he untangled his leg from the bars, Buffy ran to the doorway. “Are you okay? Do you need any...”

Robbie gave her a horrified look, scrambled to his feet, and rang off.

“...help?” Buffy said to the empty space where Robbie had been.

Inside the kitchen, Tom dropped his head and wiped at his mouth, to hide his glee.

“What's wrong with him? Have I done something to upset him?” Buffy asked as she walked back into the kitchen. “He looked terrified.”

Without missing a beat, Tom smoothly replied, “He has a nervous disposition.”

“Strange, he looked fine talking to you. Then, when I appeared, he took off.” She stopped by the sink unit, tilted her head and gave Tom a suspicious look. “Have you been saying something about me?”

“Me?!” Tom's eyebrows raised with indignation. “What have I done?”

Buffy narrowed her eyes at him. She knew that, for some reason, Tom had a bee in his bonnet about Robbie. He'd already accused her of sneaking out the orphanage to meet him at night and suggested more than once something was going on between them. She also had a strong suspicion that it was Tom who'd told Mrs Cole that she was hiding under the stairs and leaving love letters for Robbie under the mop bucket.

“I believe,” said Tom slowly, “that he has his good and his bad days. That would account for the mood swings and odd behaviour.” Seeing that she looked unconvinced, he added, “Ask him yourself. I'm sure he would love to talk to you about his problems.”

Buffy folded her arms and gave him a hard look that would make most demons nervous. “I might just do that and when I do, I'll bring your name into the conversation.”

Although Tom maintained the honest expression, Buffy spotted a flicker of uncertainty in Tom's dark blue eyes. It seemed that now he was the one becoming nervous as he placed the neatly folded drying cloth down and said, “The next bus is due at quarter past. We'll need to hurry to catch it.”

They left Wool's at a quick pace. Heading for one of the busier streets where Tom explained they'd able to catch a bus which would take them almost directly to Buffy's hotel. It was a Saturday morning and more people were on the streets than earlier in the week. Huddles of housewives stood outside doorways and gangs of children played hopscotch or swung from ropes they'd attached to lamp posts. Not far from the bus stop, they passed three young girls playing jump rope game and singing loudly in time to the swinging rope.

“My mother told me,  
I never should,  
Play with the witches  
In the wood.  
Catch them,  
Drown them,  
Burn them away,  
Drive them off,  
So gone they'll stay!”

Both Buffy and Tom looked over at them, Buffy curious about the song and Tom scowling. One of the girls, who had long greasy hair and a dirty face, poked her tongue out at him. Tom silently fumed.

“Is that like, an educational kid's song?” Buffy asked, thinking kids could be cruel but not seeing why Tom seemed to take it personally. “How to smite your enemies by burning and drowning. I guess, if you're a magic user, it isn't all that polite.”

Tom, thrown by her comment, accidentally veered into her path, bumping into her, and sending the gas mask bouncing at her side. Buffy grabbed at it before the string slipped from her shoulder. She'd no idea what the boggart would turn into if the box broke open in the middle of the street and she didn't want to find out.

“Is this one ours?” Buffy asked a still bewildered Tom. There was a bus was rattling down the street towards them and if it was their bus, she didn't want to miss it.

Tom dragged his gaze away from her and waved the bus down. It drew up at the kerb beside them and the faces of passengers stared down at them from each of its windows. Tom grimaced, then looked at her intently. “I'd rather ride the Knight bus then get on this. What about you?”

“What's a night bus?” Buffy asked, climbing onto the bus's rear platform. From what she could see the bus looked overfull.

“Ah, nothing. Never mind.” His face had closed off again and Buffy wondered if she'd missed something important.

As the conductress handed them their tickets, she told them that there was only one empty seat downstairs and that one of them would need to stand.

“Buffy, you take the seat down here,” Tom said generously. “I'll go upstairs in case there's an empty one there.”

Buffy sat on the empty seat next to an elderly man with thick grey hair and what looked like an itchy tweed jacket. After placing the gas mask on her knee, Buffy did a double-take when she spotted the headwear of the middle-aged woman in front of her. It looked as if someone had emptied a bowl of fake fruit onto her hat. There was even a bunch of red cherries dangling over the woman's right ear. Restraining a giggle, Buffy tore her eyes away to look at the rest of the passengers. It seemed most were regulars, most chatted to others while clutching shopping baskets and carriers on their knees.

The bus trundled along, stopping to let people on or off every so often. The elderly man next her opened up a large newspaper blocking Buffy's view of the street. It forced her to look across the aisle to the opposite windows so that she could keep track of their location. Not that she expected to recognise the stop she needed. She was relying on Tom to tell her where they were getting off.

The boggart scratched. Buffy placed her hands on top of the box, willing it to be quiet. The bus stopped and more people got off, leaving empty seats. Tom didn't come back downstairs and Buffy assumed that he'd already found a seat upstairs and their stop must be a good way off. She shuffled, feeling hot and uncomfortable and was just considering standing up and taking off her coat when the boggart scratched loudly and then, quite suddenly, the whole box jumped in her hands.

“That isn't your gas mask in there, is it?” The man next to her asked, folding away his newspaper.

“Er,” Buffy began, not knowing how to answer that.

The boggart scratched hard at the box lid, desperate to come out.  
“Shush!” Buffy tapped the top of the box with the palm of her hand.

“It's an animal, isn't it?” the man pressed. “You've got an animal inside your gas mask box.”

Buffy panicked. Was he going to tell the conductress? What if they asked to see what kind of animal she was carrying? Was there a rule against carrying boggarts on buses? Did she have to pay extra?

The man continued, his face one of foreboding, “You do know if there is a gas raid you're in grave danger of blindness and severely damaged lungs? A gas mask box is there for your gas mask and not to carry small animals around in.”

The woman sitting in front turned around to gape at Buffy. Her fruit bowl hat quivered, and she jabbed her finger at Buffy's box. “Have you got an animal in there?”

Other people were looking over at her and, before Buffy could deny it, the boggart scratched at the box again.

“Is it a kitten?” The woman's face softened. “I have a cat. He's called Monty. What's your kitten called?”

“Um, Spikey,” mumbled Buffy. The crowded bus, nosy passengers, and the boggart were making her feel hot and bothered. A trickle of sweat ran down the back of her neck. She wished she'd not worn a coat.

Hearing its name mentioned, Spikey scratched and butted at the lid wanting to come out. Buffy stifled a groan. This was getting out of hand. She should have subdued it with Great Expectations before setting off or brought the book with her at least. Not that she could risk opening the lid. Boggarts were fast and there was a good chance that it would escape and zoom around the bus before she could stop it. Buffy had a mental image of herself chasing the boggart up and down the aisles and it transforming into the bus drivers worst nightmare causing him to crash. She shuddered.

“Did you make any air-holes?” the man asked. His head was moving from side to side, trying to peer around the box. “How do you expect it to breathe? Not that I want you to let it out.” He gave a long, deep cough. “I'm just saying, no oxygen and it will die – horribly.”

“The lid is loose,” Buffy replied. The lid wasn't loose, but she didn't think that something not alive needed oxygen to breathe.

“Fish heads,” said the woman in the fruit bowl hat with a nod.

“What?” barked the man, bristling. “Are you insulting me?”

The woman gazed at him confused. “My cat, Monty, likes eating fish heads. Spikey might like them too.”

They both looked at her, expecting an answer.

“Yeah, thanks. I'll bear that in mind.” Buffy wanted the conversation over with. She could hear footsteps overhead and had a feeling that it was Tom on the way to the stairs.

“It needs oxygen as well as food,” the man went on. “If you must bring it out again in future, make sure you create air-holes in the box.”

“Yeah, thanks for the advice.” Buffy climbed to her feet smiling politely. Tom had rung the bell and was already waiting at the bottom of the stairs. “Excuse me, this is my stop.”

They alighted in the busy high street lined with shops. Buffy looking about her when someone banging on the bus window caught her attention. The elderly man pulled open the bus window and shouted, “Air-holes!” as the bus drew off.

“What in Merlin's name is that about?” Tom asked. He took her arm, guiding her towards an alley a short distance away.

Buffy hardly noticed the 'Merlin', her brain had frozen with mortification. She couldn't tell him the truth. At best he'd think she was nuts, or as he called it 'mental'.

“Um, it was just a conversation about cats. Nothing important.”

He gave her one of his hard stares, as if he was trying to seek the truth in her eyes.

Buffy turned her face, scanning the nearest shop windows and seeing the small amounts of goods they had on display. The greengrocer's window even had a sign in the window showing a long list of unavailable products, yet Buffy could see a long line of shoppers waiting for what little food they did have. Further on, Buffy could see more lines of people waiting outside the butchers, costermongers, and the bakers. Rationing was really bad in wartime Britain.

“Cats?” Tom asked, refusing to let the subject drop as they entered the alley. “If you were discussing cats, why did he shout 'air-holes' at you?”

Yeah, as if she could tell him that she had a magical creature in her gas mask box and the man was worried in case it asphyxiated. She could just imagine Mr Bookworm's expression if she did.  
The only thing she could do was play the incident down.

Buffy shrugged. “It just happened. I go through life having strange conversations with strange people.” Which was kind of true, if all those memories were real.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Tom giving her a sharp look. No doubt wondering if she included him in that or wondering if she was more mental than he'd first thought. It was sort of embarrassing, but there wasn't much she could do about it. She stared at the ground, pretending to be fascinated with the ancient cobbles beneath her shoes and avoiding stepping into the small stone mud-filled gulley that ran down the centre of the alleyway.

The alleyway opened up onto the next street and Tom pointed over to the hotel where she and her mother had been staying. The Beaumaris was a square building set behind a small courtyard with an ornamental shrub planted on either side of the gate.

Buffy felt a stab of bitter disappointment. She didn't recognise it at all. It looked completely unfamiliar.

They climbed the steps and Tom pushed open the heavy door, allowing her to enter before him. The hotel foyer was old fashioned, decorated with dark red flocked wallpaper, Victorian fixtures, and dark cumbersome furniture. Over to one side was an alcove with an ornate fireplace and set with tables and chairs. Next to the empty fireplace, a solitary man sat, a monocle in his eye, browsing the Times newspaper.

Tom rang the bell at the reception counter and a tall, thin man dressed in black like an undertaker emerged from the back office.

“May I help?” he asked, his tone discouraging.

Buffy had the feeling that the only help he'd like to give them, was kicking them out onto the street. Still, he wasn't a demon and his attitude was more annoying than intimidating. Pasting a bright smile onto her face, she said, “Hi, my name is Buffy Summers. My Mom and I have a room here, we-”

Non-payers,” said the man coldly. He glared at her from over the top of his half-moon glasses. “You're lucky we haven't thrown all your baggage out into the street where it belongs.”

Next to her, she felt Tom grow tense and her spidey-senses stirred to life. It made Buffy tilt her head, examining the tall boy more closely. Tom Riddle had set off her Slaydar before, yet Buffy was positive that he was only human.

Tom didn't notice her scrutiny. His focus solely was on the hotel manager and when he spoke, his voice rang with the authority of one used to giving orders. “The police informed you that Mrs Summers and her daughter were in an accident. Miss Summers is here to collect her belongings and you will not hinder her.”

His words made the hotel manager reappraise them both and after a moment, he shifted uncomfortably. To hide the fact he was on edge, he busied himself by flicking the pages of the hotel ledger. “Of course, sir, it's just the matter of the unpaid bill...”

Buffy took her Mom's wallet from out of her purse. That was an easy fix. “I'll pay you now. I intend to pack and move us out today.”

After settling their account, Buffy took the hotel room key. “Can you tell me where my room is? I don't remember.”

The manager continued writing in the hotel ledger. Without looking up, he waved a hand towards a set of stairs further back in the building that Buffy hadn't previously noticed.

“Third floor, right at the top. Room eighty is on the right. You have an hour to pack. Any longer and I'll need to charge extra.” When Tom moved to follow Buffy, he looked up. “I'm sorry, but your boyfriend will need to wait down here. We don't allow unrelated members of the opposite sex in our rooms. This is a respectable establishment.”

“I'm not her boyfriend,” Tom replied quickly. The speed at which he denied it Buffy found kind of annoying. He went on, “I'm fine waiting down here.”

“Yeah, he's definitely not my type,” Buffy added. She grabbed Tom's arm, pulling him into the alcove where the other resident sat.

“I do wish you wouldn't do that!” said Tom, pushing off her away and straightening his sleeve. “You should show more respect for me and my clothes.”

“Har, har, I do have respect for clothes. It's you, you're like an old woman. “ She ignored the withering look he gave her. “Seriously, are you okay waiting?” The man next to the fire looked up, watching them, the eye looking through the monocle bigger than the other.

“I'm fine. I shall stay here and read.” Tom reached out a hand to twitch the string off her shoulder. “You can leave your gas mask with me while you pack.”

“No!” Buffy quickly side-stepped away, holding onto the box. She gave him one of her Valley girl smiles, wide and vacant, to distract him. “Thanks, but I need to keep it at my side in case Hitler gasses me.”

She walked off before he could argue. Silently, she cursed her life. Tom might set her teeth on edge sometimes, but he was still one of the most handsome boys that she'd seen and Buffy knew that she was coming across as... well, mental.

.......................


	17. The Letter

On the third floor of the hotel, Buffy put the key into the lock of room eighty, turned it and swung open the door. She paused before entering, slowly looking around the room to see if anything looked familiar.

It was a light and pleasant room with twin cots, one on either side of the sash window. The wallpaper pale and delicately patterned, peach bedding matched the long curtains, and there was a nightstand standing directly beneath the window. So far nothing jogged her memory, but she felt undeterred, and that nightstand looked a good place to start looking for clues.

Buffy picked up the small travel alarm clock, the case embossed with the initials HS & JS on the leather case. That must be her Mom's. She put it back down and instead picked up a selection of travel guides to London, the South Coast and the West Country. Sitting down on one of the cots she began flicking through each of the guides, looking for anything that had been marked. From the quick scan, it looked as if they hadn't been used, but Buffy decided to take them back with her for a closer look later.

Next, she pulled the top drawer open. Inside she found underwear, from the girdle and garment sizing she guessed these belonged to her Mom. There was more underwear in the second drawer, this time hers. In the last, she found hosiery, gloves, and scarves. These were all going to come in useful, but they weren't what she was hoping to find.

She tipped out the content of the three drawers on the bed and moved on to the closet. There were two deep-red suitcases on the top and Buffy had to stretch up on tip-toes to reach them. Both felt light when she moved them - most likely they'd be empty. She still took the time to search each one thoroughly. She slid her hand into and along each side compartment and then searched the big pocket on the inside of the lid. Inside of one, she found a pair of slippers and then rolled up in the smaller side pocket, a square of thick, cream-coloured paper.

Buffy opened it to find a short message written in vibrant purple ink.“Looking forward to seeing you both again. Owl me on arrival. P.”

'Owl me?' Was that a British word for telegram? And who was this 'P' who had seen them before?

Buffy placed the letter down on top of the nightstand, so that she wouldn't forget it, and then eyed the wooden wardrobe on the opposite wall apprehensively. There had better not be another boggart living inside it, she had more than enough trouble with the one she already had.

When Buffy opened the closet doors, she found the inside stuffed with clothing. A surge of pleasure went through her at being able to wear her own clothes again. Since the accident, she'd been forced to wear either the skirt and blouse she'd been found in, a faded dress Martha had lent her, or the boy's outfit that she had worn for illegal night-time jaunts.

She systematically began pulling each item off the hanger, holding it up against her, and then working out who it belonged to. Apart from her Mom's clothes being a size or two larger than hers, there was little difference in style. Something about wearing Mom style clothes struck Buffy as being odd, but she couldn't explain why.

At the bottom of the closet were more cases – one containing footwear and a couple of hats. Buffy took them out and searched the compartments once again for clues. She only found an old receipt for shoes. Finally, she turned to the last item of furniture - the dresser.

The dresser top was covered with make-up, lotions, hairbrushes, styling products, and everything else that a stylish lady in the 1940s might need. Buffy picked up a lipstick and applied a coat to her lips before turning her attention to the dresser's drawers.

Each of the drawers was full of knitwear. Buffy emptied them out, one at a time, onto the bed in case there were any papers hidden at the bottom. Nothing! Disappointed, she looked around the room, hoping to find something else to search. Ah! She hadn't checked under the bed. Kneeling down in between both beds, Buffy lifted the counterpane on the first one, then the other. She found only dust and a pair of pink slippers that were in her size.

Hopes dashed, she knelt on the floor looking around at the mess she'd made. Belatedly realising that it might have been a better idea packing as she'd searched. Now she would need to move everything all over again.

It was as she was in the process of folding her Mom's rose-coloured cardigan that her hand touched something that crackled like paper inside one of the pockets.

“Please let this be an address for 'P',” Buffy said aloud. If it was, she would call at the Post Office and ask about sending them an... owl.

She unfolded it to find it was a torn letter, the top part missing. The writer's anger was evident in the harshness of the strokes and indentations he'd made pressing the point of the nib into the thin paper.

… allowed you to take all the equity in the house and all the items it contained.

As for Buffy, she is...(what looked like a teardrop obscured the next couple of words.) ...Yes, she is completely blameless.

However, this does not change the fact that you lied to me from the start. You had a choice and chose the course of hiding... (the next words were smeared and illegible)... is, causing more harm for all in the long run. Joyce, you reap what you sow, and I want to be as far away as possible from you when the Reaper calls.

As promised, I include with this letter the correct documentation and the tickets for your journey to England. Do not approach me further. I want nothing more to do with either of you. I have already found someone (more smeared words) ...younger and pre... (tear splodge)...moved on.

Hank Summers.

This was her father? Several choice words floated through Buffy's mind - 'Dad' wasn't one of them. She should be more upset with him, but truly she felt... nothing. She had zero memories of this deadbeat loser and, from his callous abandonment of her, was thankful the name didn't conjure up any strong memories.

She reread the letter, her eye drawn to the smeared words and tear stains. He'd sent this to her Mom and she'd cried when reading it. Hank Summers was definitely laying the blame for the marriage break-up firmly at her door.

Buffy had only odd memories from her home life back in America. Flashes of her and her Mom making brownies, the scent of pine trees and cinnamon at Christmas, and a faint memory of a man holding her hand when she was very young. She was glad now that she couldn't remember any more. Whatever had gone on between them wasn't her fault, yet Hank made it clear that he didn't want to hear off either of them. That was... kind of cruel. Buffy let out a ragged breath that was close to a sob. She could put aside all those fantasies of a father frantically searching London for his missing family and a golden reunion.

I want to be as far from you as possible... Do not approach me further. I want nothing more to do with either of you.

He didn't care, didn't want to hear from her, and once again she was on her own.

The boggart scratched at the inside of the box, reminding Buffy that time was passing and she still hadn't finished packing or finding the boggart a new home. Folding the last items up, she finished packing the cases and looked around her at the bedroom. The only things left were the letters, which she put in her pocket, and the travel guides and alarm clock which went into her purse. Checking her watch, she found that she had ten minutes left to plant the boggart and book out. She needed to hurry.

Leaving the luggage behind in her room to collect later, Buffy set off to the attic. There was no one around to stop her ascending the next flight of stairs that led to the servant's level. As she passed the hotel's old servant bedrooms she thought again about the letter. From the sound of Hank Summers (he didn't deserve to be called Dad) she couldn't blame her Mom for looking elsewhere. It was a pity that her Mom's new man wasn't here now. She could do with his help.

Buffy pushed open the final door and entered the storage part of the attic. Over the years the hotel had stored their broken and unused pieces of furniture in here, along with old storage crates and guests lost items. There was even a huge wardrobe, listing drunkenly against a sturdy dresser.

When she opened the box, the boggart shot out, zooming around the dark attic at high speed, then coming back to her to stare expectantly in her face.

When Buffy spoke, her voice came out thick with emotion, “This is your new home now, Spikey. Don't scare the kids.”

She'd no idea how she'd expected it to respond. When it transformed into her Mom and held out its arms, it seemed only natural to step into them and receive a hug. It didn't feel anything like her Mom. The boggart was as cool as a vampire to touch and wasn't all that comforting. But Buffy guessed boggarts were more used to scaring people than being nice and it is the thought that counts.

“Goodbye, Spikey,” Buffy whispered as she pulled away and walking quickly across to the doorway. Even though she couldn't be sure, she had the feeling that the boggart stood, watching the door, long after she'd gone.

On her way back to her room, she bumped into the bellboy and offered him a tip to help her carry the cases downstairs. She knew that she was easily strong enough to carry them all at once by herself, but doing so would only draw attention to herself.

Down in the reception area, Tom sat alone by the fire reading one of his school books. As soon as he spotted her and the bellboy he rose to his feet. He said nothing until the boy had left hearing distance and then asked, “Did you discover any clues to your family's whereabouts?”

Buffy shook her head, but something in her face must have given it away.

“What then?” he pressed, stepping closer to her, dark blue eyes fringed with black lashes boring into hers. “You discovered something. Tell me.”

The authoritative tone annoyed the hell out of her, and a snarky remark leaped to the tip of her tongue. Buffy held it back, remembering that she'd seen the photos of his parents in the file they'd found when they had broken into the Town Hall. She supposed it only fair that she share her discovery with him.

She pulled out Hank's letter and handed it over with a scowl. “That!”

Tom unfolded the letter, looking at her questioning.

“It's a private letter to my Mom from my sperm-donor of a father. He makes it clear that he doesn't want anything to do with Mom or me.” She huffed. “He's a total waste of space.”

Tom read the letter silently, his face betraying no emotion. Handing it back to her, he asked, “Now what will you do?”

Buffy shrugged. “The same as before, hope Mom gets better.”

She didn't show Tom the note from the mysterious 'P'. Before reading Hank's letter she'd thought 'P' could be a member of her Mom's family, now it was more likely to be the guy her Mom was having an affair with.

Suddenly remembering the grumpy manager, Buffy looked about her. “Shall we go? If we stay here much longer the guy working here will charge us for loitering.”

….

Later that same day, Buffy went to her room planning to reread the letters and travel documents. When she opened the door she found the boggart waiting for her, looking sheepish.

…...............................


	18. An Unexpected caller

“The Time Machine by HG Wells,” Buffy murmured, her fingertip tracing the faded gold letters on the book's spine.

It was not the sort of book that she expected to find on the playroom shelves. The majority of the books were easy readers for the youngest kids or battered copies of Enid Blyton's fairytales. Buffy eased the book from between its companions and began turning the gold-edged pages over. The scent of old paper, printers ink, and dust rose up to tickle her nose and her memories.

She was sitting at a table in a school library with friends. Xander, his messy hair falling into his eyes, stuffed a full doughnut into his mouth. On the seat next to him, Willow was hyperventilating over a magic book whilst over to one side sat a dark-haired girl reading a fashion magazine with a bored expression. Giles came from his office and began to polish his glasses. There was a problem procuring an obscure demonology book from the Watchers Council, and he intended to approach another colleague to see if he had a copy.

Coming back to the present, Buffy blinked. Watchers Council? That was new. Did they exist? If they did, why hadn't she been contacted? Buffy thought back to the vampire that she'd slain in the bombed-out building. He'd known what a Slayer was but thought they had long gone. Yet here she was. What was the truth? Was she some kind of aberration?

She took a deep, steadying breath. None of it made sense. Really, she should just put all the Slayer memories to one side and concentrate on what was happening in her life right now. Last night, when she had sneaked out to see her Mom - hoping for answers, Joyce Summers had looked worse than ever. She'd opened her eyes for a couple of minutes, patted Buffy's hand, and then slipped back into unconsciousness without answering any questions.

Seeing her Mom weakened like this worried Buffy far more than Hank's angry letter or her own lack of memories. She felt useless and frustrated at not being able to help. It was obvious that something was badly wrong with her Mom, and whatever the doctors were doing wasn't helping. In the end, she'd stayed beside her Mom's bed for hours. She'd been there for so long that one of the nurses, doing their rounds, had almost caught her.

Buffy sighed, her spirits dark and melancholy as the weather outside. Perhaps, she should read the book. It might stop her from dwelling on things beyond her control, and it wasn't as if there was anything better to do.

Tom had gone out for the day. He'd been in a cheerful mood at breakfast. He'd strode over with a wide smile, telling her that he'd received a letter from his school and they had made him a prefect. He also had a list of textbooks that he needed for the start of term and left shortly after breakfast to buy them. Buffy had watched him leave from the window, the letter from her father burning a hole in her pocket, and feeling that hollow sensation of loneliness more than ever...

She took the book up to her room, glancing at the wardrobe out of habit as she opened the door. The boggart had been very quiet since it came back yesterday evening. Buffy wasn't sure if it was sulking at her or behaving itself in case she hit it with one of her books again for returning. She continued past Spikey's hiding place to her desk. There she pulled out the chair, sat down, and began to read.

***

The day drifted slowly onwards. Occasionally, a hard squall of rain would hit the window, making Buffy look up or she'd hear someone in the corridor and stop reading. Tom didn't return and when no one came in to disturb her, she began tuning out all the noises and lost herself in the story. She'd just reached the part where Weena and the Time Traveller were surrounded by attacking Morlocks when her bedroom door opened.

A man slipped into the room, shutting the door and casting a wordless Muffliato charm. Once confident that no one would overhear them, his eyes swept over the grim bedroom, coming to rest on the only bright spot in the room – Buffy Summers.

The girl showed no sign of being aware of him, and he used the opportunity to observe her. He took in her slight figure, the way her golden hair flowed over her shoulders, and the way her small hand propped up her chin as she continued to read. He eyed the book, wondering what subject enthralled her. Curious, he silently crossed the room and peered over her shoulder.

Buffy pushed back hard with her heels. The chair's legs screeched loudly on the tiled floor as she thrust herself backwards. The man jumped sideways, with an agility that belied his age. The next instant, he ducked and a chair flew overhead, crashing into the door.

He rose to face her, lifting his empty hands to show his peaceful intentions, the words of explanation on his tongue. Before he could utter a word, Buffy kicked out at him. Her foot slammed into his stomach, knocking the breath out of him and sending him staggering. He lost his footing and fell down heavily onto the bed. The back of his head hitting the wardrobe with such force that he saw stars. Then, before he'd had a chance to gather his wits, the wardrobe shook, and there came from within it a loud cracking noise.

Buffy, who'd been about to make a run for the door, froze in mid-stride.

A teenage boy stepped out of the wardrobe. Blonde, handsome, and brandishing a long thin notched wand, he wore a look of disdain that turned into an outright sneer when he saw the man on the bed.

The man's eyes widened with recognition and fear. “Gellert?” He shook his head.“No. No, that is impossible. It isn't you, it can't be...”

The boy did not reply. He simply turned his frosty gaze onto Buffy, as if assuring himself that she was uninjured. The small pause was all that was needed for the man to gather his thoughts.

Pulling a wand from his pocket, the man pointed it at the Gellert and shouted, “Riddikulus!”

“No!” Buffy shrieked, but she was too late.

Gellert spun so fast that he blurred. When he finally stopped spinning, he'd changed. Gone was the blonde boy and in his place was a wooden puppet, bouncing backwards and forwards on a large spring – a grotesque smile on its carved wooden face.

“Boggart begone!” The wizard raised his wand once again, to cast the spell and complete the boggart's banishment, when Buffy moved.

In a blur of Slayer speed, she spun and kicked. Her foot kicking the wand out the wizard's hand and sending it somersaulting into the air. She jumped and caught it. As her fingers closed around the wooden shaft, a plume of silver and gold sparkles shot out from the tip and cascaded down into the room. Undeterred by the accidental firework display that she'd just created, Buffy levelled the wand at the wizard.

“Try that again, Gandalf, and I'll ram this into your eye like a fork through a pickle.” She backed up as she spoke, feeling better if there was more space between them. She only stopped moving when the back of her legs hit the desk, and she could go no further.

The man held up his hands once more. “My dear, I swear that I am not here to harm you. I -.”

His explanation was interrupted by the snap of the boggart changing. This time it took the form of a slim man with icy blonde hair, mismatching eyes, and a grin that was both merry and sinister. Gellert Grindelwald brushed a hand through his short, blonde hair, and then swaggered over to the desk where he took his place beside Buffy.

Buffy's face softened. She patted Grindelwald's knee affectionately. “I'm glad he hasn't hurt you.”

In sharp contrast to hers, the wizard's face was creased with horror and bafflement. “Why are you allowing that...” he pointed at the Grindelwald boggart, “...thing to approach you?”  
Seeing Grindelwald, even if it was a boggart, lounging alongside Buffy as if he was her best friend, made him feel nauseous.

“Little Spikey is not a thing!” Buffy's eyes flashed. “Who,” she spat, “gave you the right to come in here, wave your magic-mojo, and tell Spikey that he was ridiculous for trying to protect me?”

Grindelwald grinned at her, and she gave him a comforting pat on his thigh. The boggart threw the wizard a triumphant look.

The wizard had the urge to start tearing his own hair out. “Please listen carefully to me,” he said. “That is a boggart.” He took a deep breath and went on, “It is a non-being. That is, a thing that has never been alive yet has an awareness. It does not eat food as we do, in fact, it is a type of vampire. They linger in dark hidey-holes and when someone passes their lair they spring out, taking on the appearance of their victim's worst nightmare and then feeding upon on their terror. You cannot live alongside it, it must be driven away. Give me back my wand and I will banish it for you.”

The Grindelwald-boggart glared at him, offended.

“No way! Spikey is my boggart. You leave him alone.” Buffy scowled at the wizard. Then she turned a soft, reassuring smile on the boggart and gave it another consoling pat on the leg. Grindelwald gazed back at her adoringly.

“Why isn't it turning into your worst nightmare?” The man's own fear and unease disappearing, driven away by the conundrum of a boggart who'd chosen to live in a young girl's wardrobe and not harm her.

“We're friends,” Buffy replied. Then she pointed out, “He's more right to be in my bedroom than you have.”

“I'm here to see you,” the wizard explained. He thought it wise not to mention that he'd forgotten to knock before entering. “One cannot have a boggart as a friend. They are incapable of friendship.”

“Who says?”

His stare moved from the boggart to Buffy as he pondered the question. Who indeed? The wizard realised that since most people avoided boggarts, very little research had been done on them. “Would you ask...” he waved a hand at the boggart, having forgotten its name.

“Spikey,” supplied Buffy.

“Quite. Would you mind asking your friend, Spikey, to go back into the wardrobe whilst we continue this conversation in private? I'm here with full knowledge of a lady called Martha whom I met downstairs, she pointed me to your room as I have a good reason to be here.”

Buffy stared at him as if weighing up his words. “Okay. Can you to back to your closet for me, Spikey.” Buffy pointed at the wardrobe.

In an unnerving imitation of Grindelwald, the boggart shot the man a dark look from under his lashes. Then he thrust his hands into his trouser pockets and sauntered past him to the wardrobe as if he hadn't a care in the world. Which, the man thought, he probably hadn't.

Feeling better now the doppelgänger of Grindelwald was out of sight, the wizard gave Buffy a warm smile. “Could you also be so kind as to return my wand? It is dangerous for someone untrained to wield one.”

Buffy stared at the wand in her hand almost as if she'd forgotten it was there. “Is this a weapon?”

“Ah, a wand is many things,” he began, “It is also -”

“Then Mr Pointy stays with me,” Buffy interrupted. She pressed her lips pressed together and gripped the wand more tightly. “I'm not having you putting an Abra-Cadavar on me.”

The wizard briefly considered recalling it, then dismissed the idea. Buffy didn't trust him and since she was only using it as a hostage to his good behaviour, he could let her keep it for the time being. They had gotten off on a bad footing and he had no wish to antagonise her further.

The pair spent a long moment regarding each other. The man scanning Buffy's face, searching for tell-tale signs of her parentage and finding more than one similarity in her features. Not that it signified anything. Physical similarities meant nothing and Buffy had been brought up as a Muggle. Joyce Summers had made sure of that.

He had to admit, that he was impressed by her self-defence skills. Few people in the world were capable of disarming him like that and without using magic as well. He wondered if all American Muggles taught their children the art of self-defence? Or was this Joyce's idea? Had she made sure her daughter could defend herself in a non-magical way? If so, he had to applaud both her foresight and the end product.

But what, in Merlin's name, was Buffy doing with a boggart as a familiar? Inwardly he shook his head. Perhaps, he should not have been so surprised. With a pedigree like hers, something like that should not be totally unexpected.

Aware that time was passing, and he needed to get on, he cleared his throat. It was time to explain why he was here, and even with a Squib for a mother, it might not prove to be an easy task.

“I'm sorry. We seem to have got off to rather a bad start, ”he said, smiling kindly at her. “Shall we try again, but this time I'll make a formal introduction?”

At her quick nod, he continued, “Very well. Buffy Anne Summers, let me introduce myself. My name is Albus Dumbledore.”


	19. Dumbledore Explains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dumbledore explains why he wants to speak to her and makes an interesting offer

“Let me introduce myself. My name is Albus Dumbledore.” Dumbledore stepped forward, his hand outstretched for her to shake.

Holding the wand away from him, Buffy took his hand. “Sorry about kicking you in the stomach,” she said. “I'm not big on the personal space invasion and it tends to freak me out.”

In the few seconds it took to shake his hand, she noted that his skin was warm and he had a pulse. Her Slaydar confirmed that despite his presence causing her an odd tingle, he was definitely human. Not that being human made him any less dangerous, it just took him off today's to-slay list.

Dumbledore rubbed at his beard, giving her a rueful look. “Ah, I am sorry about that. I'm a bit of a bibliophile, you see, and when I saw you absorbed in your reading I became consumed with curiosity to see the book's title.”

As if to prove it, he picked the book up from the floor, his eyes taking on a mischievous twinkle as he added, “You'd think I'd know better than to tickle a sleeping dragon.”

Buffy mouthed, “Dragon?” and her stare hardened.

Dumbledore lifted the book to hide his grin and flipped to the title page. When he saw what she was reading his brows lifted in surprise. “Oh, this is an interesting choice. The Time Machine by H. G. Wells.”

Buffy shifted uneasily. She didn't want to talk to discuss books, she wanted to ask him what he was here for. “It's a classic,” she said, not wanting to be rude.

“Indeed it is,” he continued flicking through the pages. “Travelling through time has always been a popular concept. Many people have researched the subject over the centuries and these days we have the Time Turners.”

He peeped over the top of the book to see if he'd tempted her curiosity and met watchful, green eyes. Dumbledore smiled placidly, allowing his mind to touch hers. Sensing suspicion, and growing hostility, he quickly wrenched his mind away.

Buffy didn't ask about Time Turners or time travel, instead, she asked sharply, “What do you want to see me about, Mr Dumb...?” Her nose wrinkled as she sought to remember his unusual name. “What did you say your name was?”

“Dumbledore, Professor Dumbledore.” He took a seat on her bed, taking care to leave a gap between himself and the wardrobe. Boggarts could be highly territorial, and he'd no wish for it to spring out again portraying another of his nightmares. He let his eyes trail over the contents of the room, seeking clues to the girl's interests and personality. There were no personal mementoes on display, no photos or knick-knacks that she'd collected over the years. He concluded that she was either an intensely private person or had no interest in making the orphanage feel like home. Apart from an odd item of clothing lying around, and a stack of suitcases in the corner, he'd have thought the room unoccupied.

“You're a professor?” Buffy asked. She ran her eyes over his attire, silently assessing him.

Dumbledore bore her scrutiny, knowing that she'd find nothing amiss or too unusual. He'd made a point of dressing down since he was visiting a Muggle area and wore a very plain, plum-coloured suit.

Something that Buffy saw worried her. “Has the hospital sent you? Are you a psychiatrist? Have they sent you to see if my brain is working again?” Buffy waved Dumbledore's wand and a puff of dark smoke blew out the end. “I'm not some kinda psycho-loony that needs locking up for everyone's safety. I only kicked you because I thought you were a dem-demented rapist here to ravage my body.”

Her eyes widened, realising that mistaking him for a demented rapist wasn't exactly a compliment.

“Honestly, I don't think you look anything like a demented rapist.” She smiled apologetically but then spoiled it by adding, “Well, the long beard and the straggly hair don't do you any favours, but no harm, no foul, right?” Buffy waved the wand some more. “You're not gonna tell the hospital that I'm, er, mental?” She glanced at the wand and the sparks that had begun pouring from it. “Here, you'd better take your Mr Pointy back, there are green sparks coming from it.”

Dumbledore had no idea how he was stopping himself from laughing as he listened to her babble. He hadn't been quite sure what to expect with Buffy Summers, but she was turning out to be very different to all that he'd imagined. He'd bet anyone ten galleons that she'd turn out to be something highly original in life.

“Let me put your mind at rest.” Dumbledore took his wand from her and put it into his jacket pocket. “I'm an academic professor, not a medical one. You aren't in any trouble and you haven't hurt me.” He shuffled a little on the bed and gave an exaggerated wince. “Beyond bruising my pride, that is.”

She watched him, still uneasy, a small wrinkle of confusion between her brows.

Dumbledore smiled back reassuringly. “Miss Summers, I am here to talk about something else entirely. If I may explain?”

“Sure.” Buffy picked up the chair and placed it so that she sat facing him. With a regal wave of her hand, she instructed him to, “Make with the 'splainy.”

Dumbledore's lips twitched. “I'm a professor, a teacher if you will,” he explained.

Buffy nodded, her face curious.

“Your name came to our notice after you developed a certain set of abilities. Normally, we'd have found you earlier. However,” he looked down at his clasped hands, unable to meet her eye, “we weren't aware of your existence. I am here to ask if you'd be interested in developing and learning to control those abilities?”

The silence dragged on. When he looked up, he found that Buffy looked... the only word to describe it was 'panicked'. Dumbledore replayed his words, trying to work out what he'd said that could have scared her. Not finding anything, he made another attempt to delve into her thoughts. This time he got a little further, but only far enough to know that her mind was shadowed and her thoughts unreadable. He filed away the information that she had a natural talent for Occlumens, hardly surprising knowing her parentage.

Unable to work out how he'd upset her, Dumbledore reached over and patted her hand. “It's nothing to worry about, my dear. Whilst most come to us at eleven, I'm sure that with diligence and hard work you'll soon be at the same level as others. In fact, I'm happy to provide private tuition over the next few weeks to bring you up to speed.”

“These powers...” Buffy's voice was so low that he could hardly hear it. “Are you... are you here to train me how to fight?”

“Fight? Absolutely not!” Dumbledore replied, astounded that she'd even think it. But even as he voiced the denial, he couldn't help thinking that with her fast reflexes she'd be a major asset in the fight against dark wizards. Not that he'd let her go against Grindelwald. They had to keep Buffy as far away from that charming trickster as possible.

Buffy looked relieved. “Phew, that's good news. Not that it's any clearer why you're here.”

“Hmm, let's try this another way,” Dumbledore replied, “Has anything has happened to you recently that was unusual?” He glanced at the wardrobe. “Apart from the boggart, that is.” He'd ask about how she'd become friends with that some other time, now he wanted to find out when and why her magic had sprung to life.

She huffed, staring off into the far distance before shooting him a sly side-long look. “This one time I had a building collapse on top of me.”

Dumbledore let out a bark of inappropriate laughter. He'd not expected that answer, and when she smiled back at him, he found himself becoming quite delighted with her. “No, I meant something more unusual, something out of the ordinary.”

The arched look she gave him in return, clearly told him that she doubted his sanity. “Collapsing buildings are definitely not of the normal, Mister Dumble, er, Bore.”

“It's Professor Dumble-DORE,” he corrected, having heard all the variations from children over the years. He went on, “I agree, that definitely wasn't normal. However, I mean something on a smaller, more personal level. Something that you might have accidentally caused.” He decided that it might be wise to provide examples of accidental magic that sometimes occurred around young children so that she'd know what he was asking. “Have any small objects moved around you or did your hair turn a strange colour?”

Buffy massaged her temples as if thinking too much gave her a headache. “This isn't easy for me because I've very few real memories from before the accident.”

Dumbledore wondered what she meant by real memories. Not that now was the time to ask. He remained silent and didn't rush her.

Buffy sat quietly, her face turned towards the window watching the rain beat against the glass. She turned back to him. “Um, yeah, I think I've got one. It's the hair thing. I remember bleaching my hair before we left the States and it went this nasty shade of green.”

“Ah! I was thinking more along the lines of it changing without cause,” mused Dumbledore. He'd begun to wonder if he should have stuck to the original plan and launched into a lecture on the history of Hogwarts. Her magic must have flared to life very recently if she hadn't noticed anything. There was the nasty incident with Von Kendrick. Since it was likely the dark wizard had used an unusual hex on Joyce, he'd most likely done similar to Buffy. Whatever it was, it could have unbound her magic.

“It was without cause!” Buffy cried. She was still pouting over his lack of hair sympathy. “I'd followed the instructions carefully and it was supposed to go a beachy blonde not a grassy green.” The memory, probably because it had been so traumatic at the time, was a strong one and Buffy felt put-out that he dismissed it so easily. “Mom wasn't happy with me, she'd said that she had enough to deal with without taking me to the beauty parlour to get it fixed.”

Dumbledore didn't hear her. His thoughts were in the past. Remembering a late summer evening when Joyce Summers had appeared on his doorstep with a baby in her arms. The combination of her mounting panic, his own fear, and the thought of an innocent child used as a pawn in the war had been his undoing. With hindsight, he wished that he had not done it, especially after what happened with Ariana and Credence. A fool he'd been, twice now he should have left well alone and both times there had been blonde involved.

Suddenly Dumbledore had a craving for something sweet, something to remove the bitter taste of regret from his mouth. Taking a bag of lemon drops from his pocket, he offered the bag to Buffy. “Lemon drop?”

Buffy hesitated, then gave a little shrug, and took one. There was a war on, and in the Muggle world sugar was hard to come by. She made sure Dumbledore unwrapped his and put it into his mouth, before doing the same.

“Let's try this another way,” Dumbledore said thoughtfully, crunching on the sweetness of the candy. He swallowed, cleared his throat, and started again, “The world is much older and very different than you might think – .”

Buffy took a sharp intake of breath, swallowed the wrong way, and began choking. Dumbledore sprang up, giving her several vigorous slaps on the back until she waved him off.

Sitting back down, he continued to talk while Buffy wheezed. “As I was saying, Buffy. There is far more to this world than meets the eye. There is magic and as you and I are both magic users–.”

“Huh? I can use magic? When? When did this happen?”

He ignored her, he'd already tried to go down that avenue and it had proved to be a dead-end. “In order to learn how to use and control our magical ability we must attend a special kind of school where – .”

“A school?!” she squeaked, eyes going round. “There's a magic school?”

“That's right. Hogwarts was founded to teach magic to each generation of magical children. I went there myself.”

“No way!”

“Oh, yes! I had a merry time, learning all about magic and --.”

“No, I'm not doubting you were there. It's..,” she chuckled, “you're here to tell me that I have developed magical abilities and I'm invited to attend magic school?”

He nodded, dreading her asking why her abilities hadn't developed earlier.

“Get out!” Buffy couldn't stop the grin on her face. “Are you sure I'm a...a...”

“Witch,” he supplied.

“It's not some mistake? I don't want to go there and find out that I can't levitate a pencil. Because that, would be like real embarrassing.”

“There is no mistake,” Dumbledore assured her. “Your name was written into the Book of Admittance by the Quill of Acceptance only a few days ago. Usually, a name appears in time for your eleventh birthday so this came as quite a surprise.”

He didn't tell her that he'd done a double-take when Headmaster Dippet had handed him the list and he'd seen her name staring back at him. Instead, he added, “And if that is not proof enough, my wand produced sparks and smoke in response to your innate magic.”

Buffy bounced on the chair, buzzing with excitement. “This is so cool. Willow would be so proud of me!”

“Who?” Dumbledore asked.

Buffy's eyes lost their focus. Seeming to forget all about him, she rose to her feet and walked over to lean on her desk and stare blindly out the window. Belatedly, she remembered Dumbledore and his question. Her cheeks reddened, and she perched on the desk rather than returning to the chair.

“I think Willow is or was my best friend in America,” Buffy explained. “My amnesia has taken away most of my memories, but some things are coming back. I'm hoping that once Mom comes out the hospital things will start to improve.”

“Oh, that reminds me!” Dumbledore fumbled in first one pocket, then another, searching for something. “Dear me, I am becoming most forgetful, I must have left his note behind on my desk. Your Uncle Peregrine owled me to say-.”

“Whoa, wait! Uncle Peregrine? Mom has a... Peregrine is Mom's brother?” Buffy remembered the note she'd found signed by the mysterious 'P' asking her Mom to owl him.

“Indeed he is Joyce's brother.” Dumbledore beamed. “You'll be meeting him very shortly. When I told him that I was coming to see you in order to invite you to Hogwarts, he wanted to be here. Unfortunately, he was needed at St Mungo's to fill in forms ensuring your mother's transfer goes smoothly.” Seeing Buffy's worried expression, he quickly went on, “Now, now. You mustn't worry. She might be a Squib, but Joyce will receive much better treatment in a magical hospital than in a Muggle one. The Healers in St Mungo's are used to dealing with magical maladies and the like. They'll soon have her up on her feet and back with you”

“It's a relief,” Buffy admitted. “ Those doctors at the hospital didn't know what was wrong with her and I've been worried. Oh, wait... What's a Muggle and what's a Squib?” She'd heard those words before.

“A Squib is a child without magical ability born to magical parents. It's rare, but it happens. Some Squibs choose to remain within the magical community while others seek a life outside it. In your mother's case, she married a Muggle and left the Wizarding world behind her. A Muggle is our word for those without magic.” Dumbledore's eyes lost the twinkle and his face became stern. “Miss Summers, I must warn you...”

Buffy's heart skipped a beat. Had she done something that she shouldn't have?

Dumbledore went on, “You must never reveal the existence of magic or the Wizarding World to a Muggle. Should they find out, the Ministry will have no alternative but to ensure the Muggle is obliviated-.”

Buffy was horrified. “Oh, my god! They kill them? That's horrible, why –.”

“Obliviated not obliterated. It means they have their memories altered to protect us.” He gave her a stern look. “The Wizarding World is a secret one and breaking its rules means you could face imprisonment. Do you understand?” Dumbledore knew that now was not the time to speak of Grindelwald and the war he waged. He'd leave that, and talk of many other things, for her family.

Buffy nodded. “Okay. You're looking at Secret-Identity girl here.” A memory teased and she pushed it away. Whatever it was, it could wait. This was her new life and she intended to embrace it. “So my Uncle Peregrine is on his way? What's he like?” She wasn't sure what to make of the smile Dumbledore gave her or his reply.

“Distinctive. He is one of those people that you can't miss.”

“Can you vague that up for me?”

“You'll see.” Dumbledore rose to his feet and taking a thick envelope from his coat pocket, offered it to her. “This is for you.”

Buffy slipped from the desk and took it. Written in an ornate cursive script was her name and address.

Miss Buffy Summers  
Room 86,  
Cole's Orphanage  
Stockwell  
London.

“That is your official Hogwarts acceptance letter and also a list of items needed for the start of the school year. You'll find everything listed in the shops in Diagon Alley. I'm sure your uncle will help you to obtain them.” He stood, placing his trilby back on top of his head, and gave her another smile. “I'll be off now, Miss Summers, but we shall see one another again very soon.”

Before he'd moved another inch, Buffy was on her feet and pulling him into a tight hug. Taken aback, Dumbledore patted her shoulder, feeling a little embarrassed by both the display of emotion and who was giving it. Buffy hugged him tighter, then stepped away, tears on her cheeks.

“Oh, and here I was believing that I'd brought you good news.” Dumbledore produced a large, red-spotted handkerchief from his pocket and handed it over to her.

Buffy wiped her cheeks and gave a small, self-deprecating laugh. “You have. It's the best news. It's just-.” Buffy swallowed, fighting tears, determined to speak and not break down. “Before you came... I was... alone. Having to deal. Worrying over Mom and...”

She shuddered, an involuntary gesture that made Dumbledore realize how hard the last few days had been for her.

“I've done my best to hold it together, but, honestly? It been kind of like living in a hell dimension.” She sniffed again, wiped her nose on his hanky and gave him a sheepish look. “Bet ya think I'm crazy?”

“Not at all,” he said. “You have borne it with great fortitude.” With a crooked smile, he went on, “The spirit of a true Gryffindor. I may be biased, but I'm hoping that you'll be sorted into my house once the term starts.”

Buffy looked confused, and he explained, “There are four houses at Hogwarts, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, Slytherin, and Gryffindor. I look after the students in Gryffindor house. Should you be sorted elsewhere, I want you to remember that my door will always be open to you, should you require help.”

As she thanked him he stole another look at the wardrobe. “Before I go, shall I banish the boggart for you?”

Buffy shook her head. “No, thanks. I've sort of become used to him being around.”

He merely smiled at her, already getting used to her eccentricity. As he was at the door, Dumbledore stopped and gave her a searching look. “One of the orphans that lives here also attends Hogwarts. His name is Tom Riddle. Have you met him?”

“Tom? Tom is a magic user?”

He felt a flash of surprise at her familiar use of Riddle's first name. “Tom Riddle is an intelligent and talented young wizard.” That much was the truth.

Buffy grinned. “Ha! I knew there was something different about him! Prancing around, acting all secretive, and refusing to show me his schoolbooks.”

“Has he... treated you well?” Dumbledore pressed.

“When we first met, he acted as if he had this giant stick up his ass.” Dumbledore raised an eyebrow at her language and she gave him an apologetic look in return, which quickly morphed into a full-on grin. “But, after I'd bugged him for a while, he sort of gave up and we hung around together. If you want to speak to him, you're out of luck. He's gone out buying more school books.”

“No, I don't wish to speak to him. I just wondered what your impression of him was,” Dumbledore replied, he made eye contact and looked at her steadily. For a moment, Buffy thought that he was about to say more about Tom, but he only flashed a quick smile at her and said, “I shall see you in a few days to start our lessons. Until then, goodbye.”

The door closed behind him, and Buffy looked down to see that she'd forgotten to return his handkerchief. She yanked open the door and looked out – to find an empty corridor. Professor Dumbledore was gone, but the air shimmered with something that made her skin tingle. And now she knew what it was - it was magic.


	20. The Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Buffy meets her Wizarding family.

As soon as Professor Dumbledore left, Buffy sat on the bed and opened the envelope he'd given her. There were several sheets of paper folded together. She unfolded the first one, her eye was instantly drawn to the colourful coat of arms at the top. It depicted a snake, a lion, a badger and an eagle with the school's motto emblazoned underneath.

“Draco Dormiens Nunquam Titillandus” she recited. That was Latin for 'Dragon sleeping, never tickle'. Something about her translation didn't feel right. She thought again and changed the order to 'Never Tickle A Sleeping Dragon'.

She'd heard that before. Who'd said it to her? Her eyes alighted on the desk, and the handkerchief Dumbledore had left behind. Of course, it had been Professor Dumbledore! He'd said it to her after she'd kicked him for sneaking into her room. She scowled. He probably thought it was funny.

Muttering to herself about wizards who had an odd sense of humour, Buffy scanned the rest of the page.

HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY  
Headmaster:  
Armando Dippet

Dear Miss Buffy Anne Summers,  
We are pleased to inform you that your transfer has been accepted to Hogwarts School Of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed lists of all necessary books and equipment for the start of the year.  
Term begins on 1st September.  
Yours sincerely,

Albus Dumbledore  
Deputy Headmaster.

Besides the letter, there was a train ticket for the 'Hogwarts Express' leaving platform 9 ¾ at Kings Cross station on the 1st September. There were also the lists of textbooks, clothing, and equipment that the letter mentioned.

Buffy read one of them out, “Wand, pewter cauldron, dragonhide gloves, and a plain, pointed hat.”

They had to wear a real witches hat? Surely those things weren't fashionable any more? She had a sudden vision of Tom Riddle wearing one to class and giggled.

She continued reading her lists and found out that there was a school uniform. White blouse, tie, grey pinafore, sweater or cardigan for cold days, black robes, and sensible shoes with grey or white knee-length socks. It occurred to her that she was going to look like a total dork dressing like this. The only thing making her feel better was that everyone else in the school would look a complete dork as well.

She picked up the book list next and found that if the uniform hadn't made her shudder, the book list certainly did. The list was not only for the books she needed this year but for all the years she'd missed as well. There were twenty-five textbooks. There was even another list of books, that came under the heading 'suggested reading'.

She put the papers down and walked to the desk, staring out unseeingly at the rain beating against the window panes.

September was one month away. That meant if she began now, she'd need to cover a year every week. Six books to get through every week and on top of that, she had lessons with Dumbledore. Buffy rubbed at the knots in the back of her neck.

Was she wasting her time? Was she wasting everyone's time? Was it possible to catch up? She felt fairly certain that back in Sunnydale, Willow had helped her to keep her grades up. At this school, there were brand new subjects to learn. Subjects with names like Ancient Runes, Arithmancy, Care of Magical Creatures, Potions, Dada (whatever that was), and Transfiguration. She had to start from scratch and there was no one there who'd help her. No friendly Willow explaining where she was going wrong, not even a Giles to show her where the books were that she needed for class.

She knew that being the new girl was hard enough, starting a new school was tough on any teenager. If everyone thought she had learning difficulties, it was going to be a nightmare. She could see herself trudging along a maze of unknown corridors in her new dorky clothes as she tried to find her way to class. All the other kids would avoid her, and the teachers would see her as extra workload and not worth the trouble. It was, sort of, depressing.

Should she send Dumbledore a note saying that she'd thought about it and changed her mind?

“Buffy must still be in her room.” The sound of Martha's voice in the corridor jerked Buffy from her musing.

“That's her room, that one over there,” Martha said. “You're the second visitor she's had today. A Mr Dumbarton called earlier to discuss continuing her education.”

Buffy heard a man's voice make an indistinct reply and then Martha's louder one.

“I'll just check she's decent first. She'll be made up to see you, Mr Lovegood. I know she's been very worried about her Ma, especially with the hospital not allowing visitors.”

It must be her uncle!

Buffy darted to the wardrobe. Pressing her forehead against the wardrobe door, she hissed, “Spikey, don't come out! I've another visitor.” The last thing she needed was the boggart jumping out and creating a bad impression.

The footsteps stopped at the door and someone lightly tapped on it. Martha cracked it open and poked her head around the door.

Beaming happily at Buffy, she said, “Buffy, a Mr Lovegood is here to see you. He says he's your uncle and has come straight from seeing your Ma. Are you ready to see him?”

“As I'll ever be.” Buffy smoothed her hair self-consciously. Her mother's maiden name had been Lovegood. She hadn't known that until now.

The door opened, and Buffy had her first look at her uncle. Tall and gaunt in stature, Peregrine Lovegood wore a coarsely-woven black suit and a wide-brimmed hat that cast dark shadows over his face. He tilted his head to regard her. Buffy was vaguely aware he'd a mop of frizzy, white-blonde hair and his eyes were a piercing shade of blue. But it was hard to focus on his face. Not when his hat was winking at her.

Technically, she supposed it wasn't his hat winking. It was the dead bird stuck to the side of it.

Peregrine Lovegood had a blackbird stuck on the side of his hat.

Buffy was fairly certain that the bird must be stuffed, given that it was a hat decoration. Except stuffed birds don't wink. She caught her bottom lip with her teeth. Should she say something or was it one of those things it wasn't polite to mention?

Buffy glanced at Martha, who was looking at Buffy rather than the hat. Buffy decided that she wouldn't mention it. At least not in front of Martha.

Peregrine Lovegood stepped forwards, the light from the window behind her illuminating his face. Something about the man's features, his eyes or the shape of his nose, reminded Buffy of her Mom.

“You're the image of Joyce as a young girl. I'd recognise you anywhere!” He said, in a soft voice with a musical lilt to it. Before she could reply, he'd pulled her into a tight hug.

Half-smothered, with the bird hat hovering above her head, Buffy had a tense moment when her Slaydar tingled in reaction to his odd brand of magic. She took a deep breath, letting it out again slowly, forcing herself to relax. There was no faking her uncle's warmth or his resemblance to her Mom. Peregrine Lovegood was the family she'd been looking for, he was not a candidate for her Slay list.

Completely clueless to her discomfort, Peregrine rattled on happily. “To think, I'm holding you like this. The last time I saw you, you were a babe in Joyce's arms. You've grown so much in between!”

Buffy gently pulled away from him, taking a step back, she smiled awkwardly. “Guess that's what us kids do. Grow.”

Martha closed the door softly, so as not to disturb them and Buffy heard her footsteps retreat down the hall.

“I suppose they do.” Peregrine Lovegood laughed and it made him look years younger.

“It's nice to finally meet you... Uncle Peregrine.” She stammered a little over his name. Less than an hour ago she'd been speculating who the 'P' was in her Mom's note. It was a little embarrassing that she'd thought he could be her mother's lover.

“Did the doctors tell you I have amnesia?” she asked. He nodded, and she went on, “I found a note from you in Mom's things, but I'd no idea how to contact you.”

“Ah, and my address isn't listed in any Muggle directory,” he explained. “My home is in Devon and rather out the way.”

Buffy's eyes went to the top drawer in the desk. Some of those pamphlets she'd found in their hotel room, several had been about Devon.

Peregrine continued, “I had no idea you'd arrived in England until Alastor Moody owled to say you'd been in an accident. Thank Merlin, he did!”

They stared at each other, in an awkward moment where they both had a lot to say and neither knew where to start. More rain hit the window, and from somewhere in the orphanage Buffy could hear the sound of kids arguing, Martha telling them to shut up, and then crying.

“Would you like to sit?” Buffy asked, still feeling awkward. “There's the chair or the bed?” She bit her bottom lip anxiously, she should haven't have mentioned sitting on her bed. If he accidentally banged the wardrobe as he sat down, the boggart might explode out the door.

Luckily, he chose to sit further up, well away from the wardrobe. Taking off his hat, Peregrine dropped it onto the bed beside him and raked his flattened hair with his fingers. It frizzed up even more, and Buffy stared at it. Fighting back the urge to provide hair-care advice.

Tugging her eyes away from his hair, she pulled up a chair. “So... Professor Dumbledore said you were transferring Mom?”

Her uncle's lip curled. “Indeed I have. I got her away from those strange doctors as fast as I could. We'll visit her this evening and speak with the healers.” He gestured with his thumb at the door. “Has that scary woman gone? Martha? She isn't hovering behind the door, is she? Should I be casting a muffling charm?” Peregrine looked nervous. “I'm a bit out of practice with all this. I've not had to be dealing with the Muggles for a long time and I've seen that many today it feels as if the Wrackspurts have infested my head.”

Buffy frowned, Wrackspurts? What were Wrackspurts? Since her uncle was still regarding the door nervously, she decided to put him at ease by saying, “Martha went a while ago. I heard her footsteps on the stairs.”  
Peregrine physically sagged with relief. “Oh, thank Merlin! It's always a worry in case I let something slip. Then I'd need to contact the department of Magical Calamities at the Ministry to help me undo the damage, I'd be too nervous to try fixing it myself.” He gestured at his old-fashioned suit. “Take my outfit for example.”

“Hmm?” Buffy would go a long way to avoid taking it, but she wasn't going to offend by telling him that.

“I hadn't the slightest idea what I should wear today to visit Muggles. I hit upon asking Professor Dumbledore for his advice.” Doing a passable imitation of Dumbledore, he said, “Wear your dullest and most conservative outfit, Peregrine, and you'll do fine.”

Buffy blinked, horrified. This was his idea of conservative dressing? A suit with twelve-inch wide lapels and a hat with a half-alive bird stuck on the side?

Thankfully, Peregrine didn't notice her reaction. “Tis my own ignorance of Muggle customs that makes me nervous.” He let out a long, sad sigh. “Me wife, Breda, was the one who delighted in Muggle society. After she died, I never ventured out into the Muggle world again.”

He leaned forwards, his bright blue eyes wide, as he confided, “I don't mind admitting it, Muggles scare me.”

Buffy wasn't sure how to respond. Up until Dumbledore telling her that she had magic she'd been a Muggle and wasn't scary. Okay, technically she'd been a Slayer and scary to creepies, but no one else knew that.

“Martha's nice,” she said. “It's Mrs Cole you need to watch out for.” Her uncle shot a panicked look at the door. She grinned and added, “It's her day off, she won't be back until later.”

He closed his eyes and put a hand to the left side of his chest. “Be still my beating heart. Am I so bad, Buffy, that you wish to give me a heart attack before you even know me?”

Buffy chuckled. Her uncle seemed nice, a little odd, but nice.

“Now,” he said with a kind and surprisingly shrewd smile. “I'm sure you'll be wondering what Joyce was like as a sister?”

With that, he began to talk. He told Buffy about them growing up together. How he'd been accepted into Hogwarts and his parents had Joyce to follow him. When her magic hadn't developed, she'd been sent to a Muggle school and later a college. Afterwards, Joyce's love of art led her to study on the continent. It was while she was in Paris that she met an American student called Hank Summers, fell in love, and married. Shortly after Buffy's birth, Joyce made the difficult decision to cut all ties with her Wizarding family and move to America with her Muggle husband.

Peregrine stopped speaking, his face sad, eyes misting over.

Buffy reached out and gave his arm a little squeeze.

“I'm so sorry.” He sighed heavily. “At my age, it's easy to become lost in memories. I was thinking back to the day when Joyce and Hank invited myself and Breda over to meet you. Such a happy day for us all, it was. You were born a month early, a tiny scrap of a thing wrapped up in a pink shawl. Joyce fussed over you continually.”

His face grew mournful as he gazed at Buffy. “Joyce left for America later that summer and my wife died of dragon pox a few years later. Those were dark days for me. Our parents were dead and it felt as if I'd lost everyone. If it wasn't for Lovell...” he shook his head, his eyes bright with unshed tears. He gave Buffy a tight little smile, “I was so pleased when Joyce sent a message through MACUSA to say she was returning. We waited and waited, and then, when the Auror contacted us to say that you'd both been involved in the London Muggle attack, I was beside myself with worry...” His voice trailed away as he took in his surroundings.

“And this is where you've been all this time?” He shuddered. “It's the most dreadful place that I've ever set foot in.”

“Yeah,” she agreed. “When I first came in here, I wondered if there were demons living in the cellar.”

Her uncle turned his azure gaze onto her, his eyes sharp and assessing. “You have inherited the Lovegood sensitivity, Buffy. Our family have long had knowledge of a world many others disbelieve in.” He squinted around the room. “I sense something here too. It's very strong in this room. It makes me wonder if there's a Nargle living here.”

Buffy shot a guilty look at the wardrobe and hoped he didn't mean Spikey. Almost on cue, the little boggart bumped at the side of the wardrobe.

“Shh. Did you hear that?” Peregrine whispered, grabbing her arm and looking at the door. “Has that woman come back to spy on us?”

“No, she's still downstairs. It might be the pipes contracting or mice in the walls,” Buffy replied with fake cheerfulness.

“I hope you're right.” He didn't look reassured. Rising to his feet, he said, “I think it's time we left. Have you packed?” He stepped towards the wardrobe. “If not, let me help you. I'll pass over your clothes and you can pa-.”

“NOOOO!” Buffy jumped in front of the wardrobe. “I mean, um... Am I going somewhere?”

“You're not staying here!” He seemed astounded that she thought he'd leave her. “You're coming to live with me. Ive already spoken to Joyce and she agrees.”

Buffy pulled an empty case from the stack in the corner and began taking clothes from the dresser.

Peregrine wiggled his fingers and his hat flew into the air to land on his head. He adjusted it so the bird was facing Buffy and continued talking. “Lovell is very excited about meeting you. As soon as I told him, he left off hunting for the Lymantryne Double-Horn Moth he's been looking for the past week. He's spent every day seeking it out it ever since Henry Diggory saw one fly over a Muggle house in Ottery St Catchpole.”

Buffy, her mind on the boggart and the occasional scratching noise it was making, only caught the words 'hunting' and 'moths'. “Moths?” she asked, folding a sweater. “Who's hunting moths?”

She was coming to the end of the clothes in the dresser. She folded her pyjamas and took a sly look at the wardrobe behind her uncle. The boggart was nosy. If she opened the door it was bound to come out, to see what was going on.

“My son is the lepidopterist. That's someone who studies moths and butterflies.”

“Your son?” Buffy had stopped her folding, to goggle at her uncle. “I have a cousin?” He'd mentioned a Lovell before, but she hadn't expected it to be a cousin. Then again, she hadn't expected an eccentric uncle either.

Peregrine nodded, plainly happy to talk about his only child. “He's a little older than you, born in September to your January.”

“How cool is that? I've an uncle and a cousin, I never knew about.”

Her uncle smiled. “He's very excited that you're going to Hogwarts with him. He's in Ravenclaw and hopes you'll be sorted into his house.”

“Yeah, about me going to Hogwarts,” said Buffy, remembering all those books she needed to buy and the studying she had to do. “I still don't know if I should go. What if I can't do magic or I'm too stupid to learn?”

Her uncle didn't appear concerned by her worries. Buffy thought he might think differently if he was the one about to make a fool of himself in front of an entire school.

“You'll be fine,” he said. “We're staying in the Leaky Cauldron tonight so that we can avoid the crowds by visiting Diagon early in the morning for your school supplies. Have you finished packing? ”

“Almost.” She'd filled one case, but there were still clothes in the wardrobe. How was she going to finish packing without her uncle seeing the boggart? She cast around, racking her brains for some reason to have him leave the room.  
“Um, it's mainly lady things that are left...” she let her voice trail away and dropped her head, faking embarrassment.

Peregrine Lovegood looked uncomfortable and Buffy pressed her advantage, “Can you wait downstairs, please? I'll come down as soon as I've finished packing. I want to say my goodbyes to my friends here.”

“Ah, rather than waiting downstairs, I'll take your mother's luggage back to the Leaky Cauldron. If I come back in... say, thirty minutes?”

Buffy nodded. “That's fine.” It would give her time to pack, persuade the boggart to get in the gas mask box and say goodbye to Tom and Martha.

“Until later then.” Peregrine took her mother's cases from her, holding one in each hand. As Buffy passed him, intending to open the door for him, Peregrine gave a mysteriously little smirk.

There was a loud crack and her uncle vanished. Disapparating and leaving behind motes of magic floating in the air.

Buffy, her heart banging in her chest, slowly rose up from the defensive fighting crouch she'd dropped into. Across from her, the boggart hovered in its puffer fish form outside the wardrobe door.

Her startled eyes met Spikey's wide ones. “Kind of him to warn us, wasn't it?”

The boggart nodded, and she gave it a narrow and calculating look.

“How do you feel about getting in the box again, Spikey? I'm moving to Devon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really wanted Lovell to be Xenophilius but Luna's father wasn't born until later. Lovell is Xeno's father. Just imagine both Lovell and Peregrine looking like Luna's father from the films.


	21. The Orphan Boy

Tom walked towards the tram stop, rain running down his face and his hair plastered to his forehead. A man beneath a large black umbrella came towards him, and Tom had to dodge at the last moment to avoid the water pouring off the umbrella. His foot sloshed into a large puddle, soaking his foot and making him grimace.

That morning it had been dry, with no sign of rain when he'd set off from the orphanage. As time went on the sky clouded over, and by lunch, it had started to drizzle. Busy inside the Diagon Alley shops, Tom had hardly noticed the weather, but when he'd crossed the yard behind the Leaky Cauldron he'd seen the rain and decided to delay leaving. He bought a butterbeer and spotting Marcus Lestrange by the window went over to speak to him until Lestrange's father appeared. With the Lestrange's leaving by floo, Tom had taken another look out of the window and decided that he couldn't put it off any longer. He'd set off for the orphanage in a heavy downpour.

Muggle London was quiet, those that were able keeping out of the rain. Tom headed for the tram stop, water dripping from his hair, running into his eyes and dripping off his nose. Two Muggle girls sharing an umbrella smiled sympathetically in his direction. Tom raised his chin, glaring back at them. He didn't need Muggle sympathy. Once he was seventeen and old enough to apparate, he'd never be drenched by rain again.

He caught the tram to Stockwell, alighted at the end of the street and walked back to Wools. Inside the dark hallway, Tom breathed in the building's familiar smell of tile polish, boiled cabbage, and disinfect as he put the bag down and began unbuttoning his coat. Water dripped from him onto the pristine tiles.

From the rear of the orphanage there came the soft murmur of voices and clatter of pots as Martha and tonight's kitchen helper put away dishes. Childish laughter came from the playroom and he heard a dice being rattled as board games were played. He wondered where Buffy was. Apart from helping Martha feed the babies at breakfast, she hadn't been assigned any chores today. He decided that she'd most likely be in her room, reading one of the books he'd given her.

As he hung the coat onto one of the pegs he heard Mrs Cole's office door open and then her unsteady footsteps in the hall behind him. Tom inhaled slowly, the smell of sweet sherry and cigarette smoke in the air. Mrs Cole must have spent her day off drinking with friends. That wasn't good. He turned to face her.

The woman's cheeks were flushed with alcohol, her small eyes were on the puddles of water that he'd accidentally tracked into the hallway. Her small mouth grew tighter and smaller with displeasure as she looked at the mess on the floor. Tom waited, knowing from past experience that an alcohol-fuelled Mrs Cole would be difficult to deal with and had a tendency to turn violent to those in her care.

“You brought this mess in with you, Riddle. Clean it up!” she snapped.

“Yes, of course, Mrs Cole.” Tom placed his bag onto the hard wooden bench that ran along the wall and headed for the cleaning supply cupboard, sensing the woman's eyes following him. His hand was on the door's handle when she called out to him again.

“Tom! I've something important to tell you.”

He made sure to keep his face emotionless. Anything might set the woman off, appearing too friendly, not friendly enough. The slightest thing would send her into a vicious rage and he wasn't in the mood to deal with it. “Mrs Cole?”

There was a malicious smile on her lips and her eyes burned bright and eager. Tom knew the signs. She hoped to hurt him in some way and this time it took her only took two words.

“Buffy's left.”

Tom flinched, and quickly covered his shock. It was not unexpected after all and by now it should not have hurt. Children came to Wools, they also left. Some moved to other orphanages, some to employment, and others, usually the luckier ones, were reunited with family. Long ago, before he'd even started at Muggle school, Tom had decided that he'd never become emotionally involved with other orphans. He'd broken his own rule and began to enjoy Buffy's company. And now she was gone.

The sense of loss turned in on itself and became anger. As if it were a separate beast to him, it roiled inside his gut fighting for an outlet. His magical core responded, magic began rising up to shimmer around him. More magic ran down his arms to his fingertips. The wand that he kept hidden up his sleeve thrummed at the gathering power – itching to perform a spell and release it.

Tom drew in a deep breath and then released it slowly. He needed to be careful, if he lost control now there was no telling what he'd do. He couldn't hurt Mrs Cole or cause something unusual to happen. He knew without doubt that the woman would write to Dumbledore and complain of him. Dippet would expel him from Hogwarts and the Ministry would snap his wand for misusing his magic in front of a Muggle. Tom closed his eyes, forcing all the accidentally gathered magic back inside him. He swallowed, tasting sourness.

“How nice for Buffy,” he managed to reply. His voice bland as if he felt nothing. As if her leaving him behind didn't matter.

He reached into the cupboard and grabbed the floor mop. Out the corner of his eye, he saw Mrs Cole's face was twisted with annoyance and frustration.

“She had family who wanted her,” she drawled, a sneer on her face.

Tom knew that she was trying to provoke him. As a child, she'd laughed when he'd asked her about his family. She'd told him they hadn't come for him because they didn't want a boy like him. Tom bit his tongue, using every bit of will-power not to shout and rail against her as he'd done as a child. Instead, he crouched and began wiping the rainwater from the floor.

He could still feel her eyes burning into the back of his neck as she said, “Her uncle came for her. She stayed long enough to say goodbye to her friends and then left.”

Tom nodded, not daring to speak. Anger constricted his throat and would choke his voice. An image of Buffy saying goodbye to the orphanage children came into his head. And then another of her chattering happily to a faceless uncle as she left the building. He should have known better than to trust her. She had betrayed him. Why had he engaged in conversation with her?

Mrs Cole stepped in front of him. He stared at the woman's sensible navy shoes, imagining whipping out his wand and casting a sticking hex so her feet became stuck to the floor. That way she'd be doomed to spend the rest of her life in this place - rooted to the spot.

“I know how much you liked her so I asked Martha if she'd left a message for you,” Mrs Cole continued, her voice sickly sweet with fake concern. “She said there wasn't any. I suppose Buffy forgot all about you.”

Tom stayed where he was on the floor, not trusting himself to look up. He could feel his magic trying to gather and rise up again. Two more summers left, he told himself. Two more summers and then I never have to see this woman again.

“It makes you wonder why no one likes you, doesn't it Tom? Do you think they know? Do they know deep down what you are?” She leaned down, her face so close that the smell of sherry on her breath almost made him gag. “You're a killer. You killed your father and then you killed your mother. That's why no one wanted you, because they knew there was something wrong with you. Vile boy. Get out of my sight.”

Without showing the slightest sign of his anger, Tom put the mop back, picked up his bag, and moved quickly up the stairs. After dropping his bag in his room, he went straight across the hall to check Buffy's room. There was a slim chance that Mrs Cole had lied. He wouldn't put it past her.

Yet even as he thought it, he knew it wasn't a lie. He could sense a change in the building's atmosphere. The place felt emptier than it had earlier. Buffy had brought a positive influence to the place, now that she'd gone it felt darker and dingier than ever.

Tom pushed open the door to her room. Next to him the wardrobe door hung ajar revealing a few wire hangers still hanging on the rail. He closed it, remembering the night that he'd placed the boggart in there, in the hope that it would scare her away. The plan had failed. Buffy hadn't noticed her new roommate and the boggart had migrated on. At the time he'd been annoyed, after all, he'd gone to a lot of trouble to get it for her.

He looked over to the desk, remembering when she'd leaned over it to peer through the window on her first evening. Despite her being an irritating bint to him, he'd found himself staring at the curve of her tanned calves and the way her skirt had ridden up, revealing a tantalising glimpse of inner thigh.

Now there was no sign Buffy had ever been in here. Someone had even taken away the mattress and left only a metal bed frame behind.

That's what broke his self-control. Tom Riddle saw red and struck out. Bare knuckles slammed into the wooden door of the wardrobe. Wood cracked and splintered beneath his fist and a line of blood appeared on his knuckles. Despite the pain, despite drawing blood, he lashed out again and again. Anger fuelled by Mrs Cole's jibes, the grimness of his surroundings, the pain of losing his mother, and Buffy's abandonment. The wooden door panel buckled, finally shattering under his attack. Long wooden shards broke off, some falling to the floor whilst others became embedded into his hands. Only when the front of the wardrobe collapsed did Tom stop.

Breathing hard, he pushed back his hair to stare at his handiwork. The holes smashed into door, the warped surround, and the broken sections lying all around. His hands throbbed in pain. His knuckles already swelling, blood from the cuts and splinters staining them. Tom didn't care about the pain and damage to his hands. He hadn't used his magic, he hadn't hexed anyone, and the bitter rage had left him. As for the room and the broken wardrobe...

With any luck, it would be a long time before anyone came in here. Hopefully, it would happen he was back at school. Mrs Cole might suspect him, but she couldn't prove that he'd done it.

Making his way to the bathroom, he ran hot water into the sink and began washing away blood and pulling out splinters. The cuts didn't overly concern him. He had a vial of dittany at hand that would heal the cuts and reduce bruising. If that didn't work, he could always visit St Mungo's. It wasn't as if they were magical injuries, no one would question him on how he'd got them.

When he'd finished drying himself off, he used the towel to wipe the steam from the mirror and stared at his reflection. His even features looked back at him, dark hair still damp, his face pale except for a spot of colour on either cheek. Tom knew that he was considered handsome, he wasn't blind to the way witches, and some wizards, looked at him but he'd never spent any amount of time contemplating his face. For him, his looks only served to gain attention and make people more amenable to persuasion.

The corners of his mouth turned down. He didn't want a Muggle friend. He was Tom Riddle. He could visit places where a Muggle like Buffy would never be able to tread. He could see and do things that she had no inkling of. He raised his chin, tilting his head as he examined his face from different angles. Looks did not make one special, magic did. He'd learned a lesson. Never be distracted from his destiny by a girl, whether she was a Witch or a Muggle. He would not forget.

Back in his room, he spent the next hour or so browsing his new school books. Then he lay back on his bed, one hand behind his head as he twirled the shiny prefect badge between his fingers.

“Tom Riddle, Prefect of Slytherin House.” Pride at the accomplishment made him smile. Four years he'd strove to appear as the perfect student. It had taken a lot of time and energy fawning over teachers and making sure that he was seen helping other students. The role of Prefect meant more work and responsibility, but the position came with special privileges.

Although having the power to order students around, deduct house points, and the use of a special bathroom had its merits, Tom wanted to be a Prefect for different reasons. Along with responsibility came trust. As a Prefect, he'd have more access to the books in the Restricted Section of Hogwarts library, and he'd be allowed in the corridors after curfew.

Tom intended to put his nightly wandering to good use. The founder of his house, Salazar Slytherin, had created a secret room somewhere in the castle. It was called the Chamber of Secrets and over the years many had searched and failed to find it. This year, Tom intended to find that room and discover the marvels that had been hidden away.

Tom shuffled on the mattress, his mind and body relaxing as he fantasized what he'd do when he found and opened the room. It was bound to be full of magic artefacts and books of spells full of long lost knowledge. All that power and wisdom would be his. He would surpass the great wizard Grindelwald in ability, he'd seek out immortality, he'd build himself an army of followers and subjugate all Muggles, he'd -.

Something crackled beneath his head.

Puzzled, he sat up and lifted the pillow. There, lying on top of the mattress, was a single sheet of folded paper that looked as if it had been ripped from a notebook.

The words 'To Tom-Tom,' were written on the sheet in round handwriting. Tom knew of only one person who called him that.

He snatched it up and read,

“Hi Tom,

I'm hoping to catch you before I leave, but if you're reading this, I guess it means I missed you. Boo-hoo. :-( ← that's my frowny face!”

Tom winced. Who in their right minds wrote boo-hoo and then drew a frowny face?

“My Mom's brother (that's an uncle!)”

Really? He would never have guessed.

“... has found me! He's had Mom transferred to another hospital specialising in her type of injury and coming to collect me shortly. No more Wool's! Yay!”

Yay for some thought Tom, sourly.

“He's invited me to live with him and his son (his wife died a while ago) until Mom gets better. So... new relatives. (I hope that is another yay and they aren't all too weird!)”

'Weird?' That seemed an odd thing to say. Then again, since Buffy wasn't normal, they probably weren't weird at all.

“I don't know what my new address is. I know it's in Devon. Is that far from London? Maybe I can get the bus?”

Tom snorted, despairing at her geography.

“Anyway, this isn't goodbye, I intend to turn up when you least expect it (a bit like the Spanish Inquisition).”

Spanish Inquisition? Didn't they seek out and burn witches and other heretics?

“:-) ← here's my cheerful face.”

Well, at least one of them was happy. Pity it wasn't him

“Until then, be good and don't do anything that I wouldn't.”

Tom snorted again. If only she knew his plans.

“Your friend,  
Buffy.

PS, I am pretending to be a Tooth Fairy and putting this under your pillow as I don't trust Cole Scuttle to give it to you. Don't worry, I didn't sneak a peek at your schoolbooks,  
haa haa. ;-)

Letter in hand, Tom jumped off the bed and crouched beside his school trunk, checking each of the locks and then the wards. It hadn't been opened. He immediately felt foolish for there was no way Buffy could have opened it. Not only was it protected with an anti-Muggle charm, but there were also several more unusual charms placed on to it to keep out his nosy Slytherin housemates.

Tom went back to his bed and reread the letter once more - analysing each word and phrase for a deeper, hidden meaning.

...this isn't goodbye, I intend to turn up when you least expect it.

Tom wasn't sure what to make of that line or how he felt about it. On the one hand, she was a Muggle, on the other Buffy hadn't walked out of his life without a backward glance. She'd considered him long enough to write a letter and made sure to place it where he would find it. She considered herself his friend...

She was still a filthy Muggle.

Tom crushed the paper into a ball and lashed it into the waste paper basket in the opposite corner of the room. Lying back on the bed, he twirled the prefect badge around between his fingers. His thoughts once more on the Chamber of Secrets and all the secrets it would contain.

'...I intend to turn up when you least expect it...'

Tom went over to the wastepaper basket, dug out the letter and smoothed out the creases before placing it inside his Arithmancy textbook. He held the book, pondering adding Buffy's details to one of the charts to see what the numbers made of her. It would be interesting to forecast her future.

Inwardly, he shook his head. Merlin! What was he thinking? She was just a stupid Muggle, there was no way she had any kind of place in the future he was planning.

And yet... he didn't throw her letter away.


	22. The Filthy Mudblood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Buffy finds out about blood prejudice

“Did you know teleporting was gonna make me puke?” Buffy regarded her uncle suspiciously.

They had left Wool's orphanage on foot, Peregrine carrying one of her cases and Buffy the other. He'd led her across the street and entered one of the area's many alleyways that crisscrossed this area of London. There they'd stopped, her uncle carefully checking about him. Out in the street, an elderly woman wearing a long coat, a headscarf, and pushing a large pram filled with laundry hobbled past. Her uncle waited until she'd gone before taking Buffy's arm.

'Hold on tight. Whatever you do, don't let go,” he'd said, adding gleefully. “If you let go, you might end up splinched.”

Splinched? Buffy hadn't liked the sound of it. She'd gripped his arm as hard as she dared without giving away Slayer strength. Peregrine moved. For a moment, Buffy thought he was merely turning when suddenly everything around her blurred. It felt as if she'd been squeezed into a narrow, rubbery tube. All her internal organs felt squashed, she couldn't breathe, and just as she thought that she might suffocate, her feet touched solid ground once again. She drew a deep breath, her stomach heaved, and she had scuttled away to lean against the wall and throw-up.

“Did you know, teleporting would make me puke?”

At the question, Peregrine had the decency to look sheepish. “Apparation is the best way to magically travel from one place to another,” he prevaricated. “I'm sorry for not warning you, but I wanted to get away from there as quickly as possible.”

Buffy swallowed, feeling nauseous again.

Peregrine gave her a sympathetic look. “It only makes you sick the first time, but I swear, by Merlin and Morgana, that it'll never be as bad again. Once you've learned to do it by yourself, you'll have no ill effects.”

“Yeah, if you say so,” Buffy replied, not looking at all convinced. To take her mind off her still churning stomach, she looked about her. They'd landed in another dark, dirty, and narrow alleyway. Over at the mouth of the alley, a double-decker bus trundled past followed by several trucks. Wherever they were, it was a busy part of London.

“So this apparation-” she began slowly.

“Apparate,” corrected Peregrine. He watched her closely, giving her time to get her breath back before leaving. “Or apparating.”

“Okay, to Apparate you just think where you wanna go, and bibbity bobbity boo you're there?” It might prove a cool way to travel, as well as cutting down on taxi fares if there was less puking involved.

Peregrine picked up both cases and gave a short laugh. “You almost have it. It's less of the bibbity bobbity boo and more drawing on your inner magic. They'll teach you how to Apparate at Hogwarts next year. C'mon, let me show you a jewel in the crown of the Wizarding World.”

Keeping a tight hold of the gas mask box (which contained the boggart), Buffy followed him out of the quiet and gloomy alleyway and out into Charing Cross Road. It was raining, and both Peregrine Buffy tried to stay beneath the colourful shop awnings to keep dry.

“Where exactly are we headed?” she asked, dodging other pedestrians who were trying to keep out of the rain too. It was the end of the working day, and a lot of people were hurrying for trams and buses.

“The Leaky Cauldron pub,” Peregrine declared, coming to a stop outside a book store and a dingy looking shop with blacked-out windows. He nodded to a chipped and faded blue doorway of the dingy shop. “That's it.”

A dark signboard, its writing worn away by time and the weather, hung beside the dingy shop doorway. As they moved towards it, the sign changed to one depicting a cauldron set over a fire with a potion pouring from a crack in the bottom of it.

“There's a pub in there?” Buffy wrinkled her nose, taking in the aura of neglect and the blackened out windows. If this was considered a jewel in the crown of the Wizarding world, she wasn't impressed. From the vibes it put out, it felt more like a disused magic shop than a favourite Wizarding hang-out. Even worse, her spidey-senses were tingling, telling her she needed to be careful of someone inside.

“I know it doesn't look much from the outside,” Peregrine replied, he pushed open the door and allowed her to enter first. “But this has always been my favourite pub.”

“Never come between a guy and his favourite bar,” said Buffy, stepping inside.

Her first impression, going off the clothing, was that she'd walked into a vampire bar. Over the years, Buffy had found the biggest give away with vampires was their fashion stagnation and it worked as well at outing them as her inner Slaydar did. She eyed the prevalence of cloaks and robes, as well as the odd mix of jarring colours with askance. These styles were not only decades out-of-date, but they'd gone extinct.

Buffy closed her eyes to the walking fashion disasters about her and reached out with her spidey-senses. Despite the clothing, most of the patrons were human, although she had doubts about the man sitting alone in the corner. He had a drawn face with dark shadowed eyes, and he kept staring at the fire nervously while nursing his drink. Was he a werewolf?

The pub faded and suddenly Buffy was in a club surrounded by teenagers. On stage a band played, a red-haired boy playing the guitar. She frowned, and her memory supplied the name – Oz.  
Oz looked across the crowd to her, giving her a thoughtful smile before continuing with his playing. Then the scene changed. It was the night of a full moon and, as she chattered to Willow, Oz walked past to a cage and locked himself inside so that he wouldn't hurt anyone when he changed. The memory faded and was replaced by an older Oz telling her that he'd come back to be with Willow, that in his time away he'd learned how to control his wolf side.

Her uncle touched her arm, motioning for her to keep moving, and the memory faded. Once again The Leaky Cauldron's interior and its inhabitants coming back into sharp focus.

Over at the bar, a tall wizard with a sharp face and long, straight, white-blonde hair mistook the way she'd zoned out. He sneered, turning to the witch sat next to him and spoke to her in a low whisper. Buffy's acute hearing enabled her to pick up his words.

“...another filthy Mudblood newcomer coming into our world and contaminating it with their presence.”

She'd no idea what a Mudblood was, but Buffy sensed an insult. She glanced over to her uncle. From the way he was cheerfully pushing past the other patrons and greeting them he hadn't heard the man's remark. Buffy lifted her chin defiantly, following in his wake as she drew level with the couple at the bar. The witch was around her Mom's age and, unlike the others in the bar, her dress was expensive and stylishly cut. Over the top of the indigo dress, she wore burgundy velvet robes edged with midnight black fur and her hair expertly styled.

Buffy gave her a dark look. The woman sipped from her goblet. Silently assessing Buffy and her uncle from over the top of her vessel before speaking to the man next to her. Although she kept her voice low, Buffy heard every word.

“She's with that dreadful Lovegood. The one with the awful hat.”

The long-haired man snorted. “It doesn't surprise me that he's friends with a Mudblood. The man's a...”

“C'mon, Buffy, don't stop. Keep moving,” Peregrine admonished, the bird on his hat winking and nodding at her.

Buffy shot a last look over her shoulder at the couple who'd insulted them, then quickened her pace, to catch up with her uncle. They made their way to a quieter part of the pub where several patrons glanced over to them. A few nodded to her uncle as if they knew him and then looked at her with open curiosity. Two young Ministry wizards, who'd stopped for a drink after work, eyed her appreciatively.

“Uncle Peregrine, what's a Mudblood?” Buffy asked suddenly.

“What?” Peregrine stopped so fast that only Buffy's fast reflexes stopped her from colliding into him. “Where did you hear that word? It's rude.”

Buffy waved her hand back towards the busier area and pointed at the bar to the couple sat with their backs to them. “I heard a guy in there saying it about me. The one at the bar rocking the Leglas hairstyle.”

“Ah, Brutus Malfoy,” Peregrine kept his voice low. “He's an elitist bigot, and he's got you all wrong. That word he used, it's a derogatory term for,” he ducked his head, avoiding a low beam as they entered a sideroom, “those Witches and Wizards born to non-magical parents.”

“Maybe he's right, I'm-”

Peregrine held up a hand, stopping her. “Joyce may not have magic, but our parents and grandparents were all Purebloods.” His eyes searched the room, seeking something or someone. “Not that blood purity matters,” he added. “It's no sign that your magic will be any stronger or weaker.” The lines in his face cleared when he spotted the person he'd been looking for. “Ah, there he is, causing trouble as usual.”

Buffy followed his gaze across the room. There was a boy with a mop of tousled curly, blonde hair, crawling around on his hands and knees. Buffy watched him creep beneath a table where two people sat drinking and began feeling along the floor around their feet. The two at the table ducked their heads to scold him and the rest of the customers gave him black looks and muttered their annoyance.

Peregrine shouted “Lovell!”

The boy jumped, cracked his head on the underside of the table and almost knocked it over. The couple grabbed their drinks just in time and glared at the red-faced boy as he emerged rubbing ruefully at the top of his head.

He rose and made his way over to where they stood. Keeping his flushed face averted and his eyes downcast he said, “I've lost Knuts.”

Buffy bit her cheek to stop the grin, while Peregrine let out a small, exasperated sigh.

“He was with me when I started reading,” Lovell explained. He slanted Buffy a swift glance out the corner of his eye, then returned his gaze to the floor. “When I put my book down I realised he'd hopped off.”

“He'd hopped off?” Buffy repeated. “Have I another cousin who's made a run for it?” She gave Lovell a playful grin, knowing that she hadn't, but unable to resist teasing.

“Bufo Bufo,” Lovell muttered, still refusing to look at her.

“It's Buffy.” Buffy knew her name was unusual and caused problems when people first met her. “I sorta got stung in the naming department.” She wasn't going to hold him getting her name wrong against him, especially since he had a similar burden.

Lovell looked up, bright blue eyes locking onto hers, a lop-sided smile on his face. “I know,” he said quietly, “Dad told me.” He hesitated, as if unsure how to greet his new cousin. In the end, he settled for holding out a hand for her to shake. “It's a pleasure meeting you, Buffy.”

Buffy took it. “Nice to meet you, Cuz.” Despite them being the same age, his hand was much larger than hers and at his touch, Buffy's Slaydar tingled gently in response - a sure sign of a magic-user.

Lovell flushed an even brighter red and determinedly ploughed on, “The Latin name for the Common toad is Bufo Bufo. He's my familiar. I bought him for two knuts from the Magical Menagerie, hence his name.” Lovell looked around the room again, frowning. “He keeps escaping...”

“Want me to help you?” Buffy asked. Inside the gas mask box, the boggart scratched in protest and Buffy quickly tapped the top of the box with her fingers. 'Shush, Spikey'.

“Would you?” Lovell's expression was hopeful. “He's dark green with a warty back.”

“Er, okay” Wondering what she'd just let herself in for, Buffy added, “Let me put my stuff in my room, then I'll come back and give you a hand.”

“Thanks, I'll keep looking in the meantime.” Lovell immediately dropped onto his hands and knees and started to crawl along the floor. His head tilted sideways as he tried to peer under the tables and see into all the nooks and crannies.

“Does he often lose his toad?” Buffy asked her uncle as he led her up a wooden staircase overlooking the room.

“Far too often.” Peregrine used one of the cases to gesture at one of the doors. “That's your room, number eight. Lovell is next door and I'm the one at the end.”

Buffy thought for a small pub they'd a lot more room inside than she'd thought possible. “This place is like a Tardis,” she said without thinking.

Peregrine put the suitcases down and began searching his pockets. “A Tardis? What's that?” he asked, pulling a metal key and handing it to her.

Buffy replied, “Something that is bigger on the inside.” There was a memory there, trying to surface and tell her more. A flash of Xander's face and another face, Spike's? She pushed back the memory, not wanting to zone out again in front of her uncle, and opened the door.

“Ah, Capacious Extremis. There's been more than one Extension Charm used on this place since it was first built in the early 1500s...”

Buffy only half-heard him rambling on, her focus on the room she'd been allocated. As hotel rooms went, it was neither large nor luxurious, some might even say that it was overly primitive. They wouldn't be entirely wrong. Buffy had the feeling she'd stepped back in time. From the Elizabethan graffiti carved into the wooden wainscot to the dark soot-stained beams set in the ceiling, the room not only breathed history but hummed with the residual magic of centuries past.

Her spidey-senses tingling at all the power she could sense, Buffy walked into the room and across the uneven floor to the stone mullioned, leaded windows. Looking out the windows, part of her felt disappointed. She'd almost expected to see a scene from London's distant past rather than a view of shopkeepers dismantling their shop awnings and locking up for the night. Buffy turned, looking around her bedroom that looked as if it had never changed from Tudor times. A large fourposter bed hung with heavy drapes dominated the space, there was a large wardrobe against one wall (that should keep Spikey happy), and a fireplace with a small fire crackling away in the hearth.

Peregrine placed her cases on top of the carved chest set at the foot of the bed. “If you want to settle in first, don't you worry over Lovell and his toad hunt. Come down when you're good and ready and we'll have a bite to eat before visiting St Mungo's.”

Buffy sat on the edge of the bed. “Five minutes and I'll be down,” she promised. She bounced, testing out the bedsprings. The mattress in the orphanage had been uncomfortable, this would feel like heaven in comparison.

Once her uncle had left the room, saying that he'd book a dining table, Buffy opened the gas mask box. The boggart shot out and flew around the room, examining everything excitedly. It seemed to approve of her new accommodation.

“I'm only staying for one night,” Buffy warned it. “We're going to Devon tomorrow and I'm starting witch training.” She unpinned her hat and took off her coat, and seeing that they were still wet from the rain, placed them on a chair next to the fire to dry. Fluffing up her hair she went on, “I promised Lovell that I'd look for his toad, so I'm going downstairs now.”

The boggart flew alongside her, its unblinking large eyes on her as she walked to the door. “If anyone comes into the room hide in the wardrobe. And I don't want you wandering off and scaring the other guests,” she warned. “If they find out you're with me, they might throw us both out into the street.”

Spikey nodded, but Buffy was sure that as she pulled the door closed behind her, the boggart had stuck his tongue out at her.


	23. Who is Grindelwald, Anyway?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Buffy and her Mom are reunited. More questions are raised and her Mom behaves oddly

St Mungo's Fourth floor – spell damage, hexes, curses, and jinxes

“We're here,” Buffy said as she rounded the corner of the stairwell. She looked back, over her shoulder, to where Peregrine and Lovell were climbing the stairs behind her.

Her eyes automatically went to her uncle's bird hat which opened its beak and silently squawked at her. Over dinner, she'd been elated when Peregrine had announced he would change his hat. She'd foolishly hoped that the bird hat was going to be banished for good, but it seemed her uncle had other ideas. He'd taken out his wand and transformed the black bird into a blue one and then changed the hat's colour to bright yellow. Buffy privately thought it looked even worse than before. Peregrine, however, had been pleased. He'd said that yellow was a 'nice, cheery' colour and that seeing his hat was bound to make Joyce feel better.

“Yes, here we are,” agreed Peregrine, tersely.

Buffy looked over, to see him regarding the sign with disfavour. “Have you been here before, Uncle?”

“I may have, once or twice,” he admitted reluctantly. “I had a nasty case of a hand growing out the top of my head once.”

That took her a few seconds to process. “Er, sounds nasty,” she said trying to sound sympathetic and not disbelieving. “Did they cut it off?”

“It took a few weeks before the hand shrunk enough for me to leave,” Peregrine continued embarrassed. Buffy wasn't surprised, no wonder he'd started wearing hats.

Lovell laughed. “Dad, is this the hex that Professor McGonagall cast after you jinxed her cat?”

“It might have been.” Peregrine's kept his face neutral. “I gave it an extra tail after it devoured my pet rat.”

Buffy nodded absently, her attention was on the doors in front of them. Her Mom's ward was on this floor. Already she was reaching out with her senses. Her acute Slayer hearing was picking up the chatter of visitors and patients and, from a treatment room close by, the louder voice of a healer explaining the dosage of a blood replenishing potion.

“Do you think they can cure Mom?” she asked. Her worst fear was that the magical healers would say curing her Mom was beyond them, and that she was going to die. The fear had her frozen, unable to open the doors and leave the stairwell.

Peregrine placed a hand on her shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. “I believe so,” he said softly. “You mustn't worry. The healers here have seen near enough everything over the years. They'll soon have her better.”

He pushed open the doors and Buffy followed him into a wide corridor that had several doors leading off it. A healer in a green uniform and carrying a tray of potions pushed open the door furthest away from them and entered one of the wards. They were about to follow her when the elevator doors opened with a soft swish, and a stocky young man stepped out.

The man did a double-take when he spotted Buffy and her family. Quickening his pace, he hurried over to them. “Miss Summers!”

The man removed his hat, revealing his wavy sandy coloured hair. “You probably don't remember me,” he began.

“You're Alastor Moody. You questioned me at the orphanage,” Buffy replied, she glanced at the ward doors and back at the young Auror. From what her uncle had told her, it was Alastor Moody who'd sent the owl alerting him that she and her mum had been in an accident. If it wasn't for his kindness, she might never have found her family. She could delay her visit by a few minutes

Holding out her hand, she gave him a mega-watt smile. “I wanna thank you for what you did,” she said shaking his hand. “If it wasn't for you, I'd still be in the orphanage.” She turned, introducing him to her uncle. “Uncle, this is the Auror who contacted you, Alastor Moody.”

After they had greeted each other, Alastor asked about her mother.

“We're here visiting her,” Buffy explained. She looked the young man up and down. He wore a long brown trenchcoat over a dragonhide leather jacket, dark trousers, and business-like boots. “Are you here being treated or are you visiting?”

Alastor rubbed at his shoulder with a rueful expression. “I got hit by a Stinging Jnx that wouldn't stop stinging. While I was here, I thought I'd visit a friend who got hit by a nasty blood boil hex-”

“OUCH!” said Buffy and Lovell simultaneously.

Moody grinned, pushing the ward doors open. “It was his own fault for not checking the door before he walked in. You need constant vigilance to be in this job. Luckily for him, it only hit his arm, our field-healer managed to nullify the spell with a blood cooling charm, and we brought him straight here.” He grinned even wider, revelling in the danger. “Ah, the joys of being an Auror when every dark wizard fancies himself as Grindelwald.”

He pushed open the doors to the ward for her and as she walked in, Buffy realised that it was arranged similarly to other hospital wards she'd been in. A row of beds, most of them empty, were placed on either side of the room. Over by one of the windows, a medi-witch sat at a desk reading medical reports. Buffy stood on tip-toe, craning her neck, and looking for her Mom. Finally, she spotted her at the very bottom of the ward.

“Who's that guy with Mom?” Joyce Summers was sat up in bed, smiling at a handsome man in his thirties with dark auburn hair.

Peregrine frowned, squinting at the man. “Perhaps, he's one of the healers?”

It was Moody who identified the unknown man. Sucking in a deep breath, he barked,“Why, if it isn't Bracius Lestrange! He's the Minister for International Magical Law! I wonder what he's doing here?”

He straightened up, pushing his shoulders back, fastening his trench coat and running a finger under his collar. “Is my hair alright?” he asked Buffy. “There's nothing that looks like green goo in it?”

Buffy peered at it as he turned his head. “Uh, it's a bit matted at the back and there's something gooey stuck in there too.”

Moody spat on his hands and rubbed them over his head. “Better?”

“Hmm, sort of,” Buffy replied. “You know, combing would also work.”

Moody just grinned at her, unabashed. “Never thought to bring a comb with me.”

Peregrine slowed his steps. He looked uncertain. “Do you think we should wait until he's finished? I don't want to disturb a Ministry official performing his duty”

Moody stopped. “Lestrange is known for havin' a short temper. It might be a good idea if we -

“Nope,” said Buffy, popping her 'p'. “It's not gonna happen. I don't care if he's the King of England. I'm not standing in line to see my Mom.” With that, she took off at a fast pace down the centre of the room.

Moody hurried along behind her, huffing, “Buffy, slow down!”

Buffy ignored him, crazed demons wouldn't stop her now. As she got closer to her Mom's bed, the auburn-haired man looked up, and her mother turned. Joyce's face lighting up with joy when she saw her.

“Mom!” Buffy flung her arms around her. Holding herself against her mother in the hug that she'd needed ever since the accident. She closed her eyes, revelling in the softness of her Mom, the beat of her heart in her ear, and breathing in the familiar scent of her perfume. After all those nightmares where she'd seen her Mom dead or dying, Buffy felt as though she'd come through the worst. She could cope with anything that life threw at her now she had her Mom back.

Pulling out of the embrace, Buffy asked, “How do you feel? What did the healers say? How long will you be in here? I'm so glad that you're awake!”

At the same time, Joyce asked, “Have the healers seen you, honey? What's this about losing your memory?”

They smiled at each other, sharing a special mother and daughter moment.

“It's no big, Mom. You're more important.” Buffy rolled her eyes. She'd had enough of doctors poking and prodding her and didn't wish to go through it again.

“You'll be able to ask the healers about me whilst they examine you,” Joyce said slyly, knowing her daughter's dislike of doctors. “I'll ask them to fill me in later.”

Buffy pouted, then sat back to scan her Mom's face anxiously, looking for signs of illness. The catatonic state had gone. Her Mom might be paler than usual with dark shadows beneath her eyes, but there was ore colour in her cheeks and her eyes sparkled with love and warmth.

Joyce reached out, cupping Buffy's face between both hands. “Honey, I'm so glad to see you looking well.” Her eyes dropped to Buffy's dress and, schooling her face into a stern expression, said, “Hey, who's been sneaking into my wardrobe?” Only half-teasing, she added, “That dress is far too old for you.”

“Mom!” Buffy whined. “I'm nearly sixteen!” She'd only worn the dress because her uncle had mentioned dressing up for the visit. Not wanting to look as though she hadn't made an effort, she'd chosen her Mom's silk dress and cinched it in at the waist with a belt so that it would fit. She stroked the soft fabric of the skirt. “I don't see what's wrong with it. I could understand if I'd gone Goth.”

“Oh Buffy, I've no idea what Goth is.” Joyce laughed, putting her arm around her and squeezing her.

As they shared another hug, Buffy noticed Lestrange and Moody watching them. Lestrange with a bemused expression and Moody looking uncomfortable, unsure whether he should stay and say hello to Mrs Summers or go.

“Mom, this is Alastor Moody. He's the one who found Uncle Peregrine and told him that we were in England.” She smiled, motioning him over. “I've told him how grateful we are.”

She slipped off the bed to allow Joyce to meet and greet the embarrassed Alastor. As she stepped back, giving them room, she found Lestrange had moved to her side to the bed.

“So you're Joyce's daughter,” he drawled, cocking his head, his eyes roving over her face and figure. “I knew of your existence, of course. However, you are most unexpected.”

“This is Mr Lestrange, the Minister for Foreign Affairs, Buffy,” Joyce said, leaning back and catching sight of them together. “He found out I was in here and came to see if I'd remembered anything from the attack.”

Joyce turned away to speak to Peregrine and Lestrange stepped closer to Buffy, his hand outstretched for her to shake. Before she had a chance to take it, Alastor Moody stepped between them. Surprised by the physical interruption, Buffy looked from the Auror to the Minister with confusion. Bracius Lestrange's polite expression had gone and in its place was a scowl of outrage. Moody's face was expressionless, his eyes watchful.

“Straying a little bit out of your usual territory, aren't you, Sir?” Although Moody kept both the question and his tone polite, his suspicion was almost tangible. “I've never heard of you visiting a victim's bedside before.”

Bracius raised an imperious brow at the Auror and answered coldly, “And a 'little bit' out of your jurisdiction questioning my actions? You're an Auror, aren't you? What's your name again?”

“Auror Alastor Moody, Sir. We met at the Ministry's Yule Ball,” Moody smiled blandly. “I was there with my wife.”

Lestrange's dark eyes narrowed and glinted, his expression becoming smug. “I didn't know you were married, Moody? When did that happen? The whisper in the Auror Corps is that you're married to the job.”

Moody relaxed - slightly. “Ah, there's no foolin' you, Sir. I'm sorry for testing you like that. I had to make sure it was you. You can't be too careful.” He backed off, far enough to give Lestrange and Buffy some privacy, yet close enough to step back into the conversation.

Behind them, Buffy heard Lovell and Peregrine talking softly to Joyce completely unaware Moody had challenged Lestrange. Buffy half-turned, intending to go back to her mother's side when Lestrange placed a hand on her arm. She felt magic crackle around them, but if the man felt it, he gave no sign. He tugged gently, drawing her a few paces away from her mother's bedside.

“Should I steal you away from your mother, Buffy?”

Buffy snorted. “I'd like to see you try. I'm not going anywhere.”

Lestrange gave her a tight smile. “Very well. A young girl's place is with her mother, and you can easily answer my questions about the attack here.”

“Don't bother. I don't remember anything,” Buffy replied cheerfully, happy to put an end to this conversation.

Lestrange's face darkened. Buffy bit her lip, feeling guilty. She supposed he was only doing his job and trying to find the man who'd hurt her and her Mom. “Look, I'm not trying to be obstructive. I have amnesia and don't remember much of my life before waking up under the rubble.”

Lestrange's emerald eyes burned into hers. “Are you sure? Are you so very sure about that?”

Buffy's Slaydar prickled as the atmosphere became charged with magic. She sensed a push in her mind and realised that the Minister was attempting to read her thoughts. Instantly, the Slayer part of her stirred, angry at the attempted intrusion. Had he seen anything that he shouldn't have?

“I AM sure,” she said, her voice hard and cold. “There's no need to try and rape my brain.”

Taken aback, he gave her a small, stilted bow that hinted at either a military training or old-world manners. “Forgive me. Let me assure you that my intention was to simply access memories hidden due to your injuries. If you'd allow me to -.”

“No,” Buffy said firmly. The idea of giving anyone free rein to poke around inside her head made her shudder. There were all those memories of hunting demons in there. She definitely didn't want anyone seeing them. If they did, it might result in a long-term stay in a padded hospital room.

“Von Kendrick is a danger to you,” continued Lestrange. “If we can find out why he wanted you...”

“You think it was Buffy that he came for then, Sir?” asked Moody. He'd sauntered back over, his eyes moving from Lestrange to Buffy, crease lines on his forehead. “I thought the Ministry believed the attack Buffy was in was made against Muggles, ordered by Grindelwald.”

“Grindelwald?” Peregrine turned, tutting as he overheard the tail end of the conversation. “That man is nothing but trouble!”

Lestrange stiffened, glancing first to Peregrine then to where Joyce sat with her eyes downcast.

“Who IS Grindelwald, anyway?” Buffy asked. She kept hearing the name but so far no one had explained exactly who he was.

Lestrange let out a bark of laughter. “Ha! The girl asks an excellent question, and the one few can answer.”

“Gellert Grindelwald is a dark wizard who's waging war on the established order,” replied Moody. “The crux of it is, he wants to end the secrecy between the magical world and the Muggle one.”

“And that's a problem, how?” Buffy asked.

“Last time it ended in witch hunts and burnings,” explained Moody. “That's why the Statute was drawn up. Many think though the time has come to break international statute. That in doing so the magical and non-magical world will become stronger. Others, mainly Purebloods, although I'm one myself and don't think it, believe that those without magic are inferior and should be killed or enslaved. Grindelwald and his dark acolytes bring death to Wizards and Muggles alike.”

“Crude, very crude,” replied Lestrange, his full lips drawn back in a sneer. “Grindelwald is many things but crude he is not.” His eyes went to Joyce. “Joyce! Truthfully, do you think that Grindelwald is crude?”

Joyce's cheeks became tinged with colour. “No,” she said softly. “He isn't a crude man.”

Lestrange smiled happily. “See? Joyce likes him.”

“I don't like him,” replied Joyce, her voice surprisingly forcefully. She held Lestrange's eye. “As a person, the man is far from crude. But I certainly don't condone his methods or his... tricks.”

Everyone was silent. Buffy met Lovell's confused gaze and shrugged. She'd no idea what was going on between her Mom and Lestrange either.

“So... I do not believe Grindelwald is behind this,” said Lestrange, addressing them all. “The attack lacked Grindelwald's finesse. I have contacts on the continent who believe Von Kendrick is working on his own. He has certainly not been seen near Grindelwald in the past few weeks.”  
Lestrange's brows drew together and he gazed at Buffy thoughtfully, “Aren't you supposed to be a Muggle? Should you be hearing all this?”

“Buffy is a Witch, not a Muggle,” Peregrine replied. “She has every right to be in the Wizarding World and will be attending Hogwarts in September.”

Joyce inhaled sharply. “What?” She shook her head vigorously. “No! No, she isn't.” Her fingers scrabbled on the sheets, the material balling in her hands. “A Nomaj can't attend Hogwarts. Peregrine, she's fifteen and never shown signs of being magical.”

Her brother patted her hand soothingly. “Dumbledore says differently...”

Lestrange snorted softly. The small sound didn't escape Buffy's sharp ears and she met the man's eyes. Intelligence glinted in their depths along with a hint of mirth. What deep game was he playing? She allowed some of her suspicion to leak onto her face. In return, he gave her a conspiratorial smile, for all the world as if they were two friends sharing a running joke rather than two strangers who'd just met.

“No, no. This can't be true! I want her safe.”

Buffy wrenched her gaze away from Lestrange, concerned at the panic in her Mom's voice.

“... she got her Hogwarts letter today.” Peregrine patted Joyce's hand once more. “Don't be fretting. Hogwarts has a lot of protective wards, she'll be safe there and enjoy every moment of it. Lovell hopes she'll be a Ravenclaw like him.”

“Safe?” Joyce chewed at her bottom lip. “She will be safe, won't she?”

Peregrine nodded.

“Then I'm glad she'll be there.” But Buffy thought her Mom still looked worried.

“Isn't it fascinating the way Buffy's magic developed so late?” mused Lestrange. “Why do you think that is, Joyce? Do you think something could have... blocked it?” His intense stare burned into the woman.

Joyce slid a frightened look at him. “I... I don't know. Maybe it's because Hank's a Muggle and I'm a Squib.”

Buffy's eyes narrowed, disliking the way he questioned and frightened her Mom.Why was it her Mom's fault that her magic hadn't appeared until now? She folded her arms and death-glared the Minister. “I think Mom has had enough of your questioning. I know I have.”

Once again, Lestrange was all contrite apologies. “Of course. Forgive my intrusion and my impertinent questions. It was delightful to meet you all.” He waved a hand at a ruby-red robe hanging from the back of a chair. It rose into the air and flew to him.  
“I hope you enjoy your time at Hogwarts, Buffy,” he said, slipping the robe over his shoulders. “My son, Marcus, will be in the same year. I shall tell him to look out for you.”

Buffy swallowed, suddenly nervous.He had a son who would be in her classes? “Er, I'm not sure if I'm gonna enjoy it. I have a lot of catching up to do and I'll be happy if I don't make a fool of myself in front of everyone.”

Lestrange patted her arm and, at his touch, Buffy felt a heady rush of magic running through her. Her Slaydar hummed, cautioning that this man's magic was extremely powerful. When the warning faded away, in its place was a different sensation. This one was of familiarity, almost as if her magic knew and understood his. As Buffy searched his face, Lestrange held something up between his finger and thumb.

“You need to be careful of things like this, Buffy.”

She saw that it was a stray blonde hair that had fallen onto her shoulder. “Huh?”

Lestrange's smile was enigmatic. “Polyjuice potion. Once someone has one of your hairs, they can assume your appearance.”

“Why would anyone want to do that?” Buffy asked, taking the hair from him and dropping it in her purse. She'd no idea why anyone would want to look like her, except Spikey, he enjoyed things like that.

“You'd be surprised,” Lestrange his gaze intense.

“Constant vigilance is always to the wise,” said Moody cutting in. “There's no need to worry, Sir. I'll keep an eye on Buffy.”

The Minister looked at him for a long moment, the small tic beneath his eye the only sign that he was annoyed at the statement. “Quite.”

Moody cringed, and cleared his throat, “Ahem, I'll just go and visit my friend Danny. See you again some time, Buffy.”

“I shall also bid you farewell,” said Lestrange. “If you have need of me, contact the Ministry and ask for Bracius Lestrange. I shall not fail you.”

With a graceful swirl of ruby-red robes, he walked down the aisle and from the ward. Buffy was about to return to her Mom when she spotted Alastor Moody behaving oddly again. The man half ran, half crouched along the wall of the ward. When he got to the door he stopped, peeked through the glazed aperture in the door to check the corridor, opened the doors. and disappeared out of sight.

Buffy frowned. She doubted that it was a coincidence he'd left immediately after Lestrange. The Auror had seemed suspicious of the Minister throughout the encounter.Why? She remembered the way Moody had tested Lestrange to make certain he wasn't an imposter. Lestrange had passed his test, so what was Moody up to?

“Buffy,” Joyce called. She patted the mattress beside her. “Come and talk to me, Honey. You can eye the boys later.”

Boys? She looked around her in confusion and spotted two older teenagers visiting a friend. Buffy had been so intent on Lestrange and Moody that she hadn't noticed them until her Mom pointed them out. She rolled her eyes, going over to her Mom's bed, and perching on the edge of the mattress next to her Mom.

“As if I'm gonna have time for a boyfriend,” she muttered mutinously. “I have that much studying to do my nose will never come out of a book.”

“Then I'm liking the fact you'll be at Hogwarts more and more,” quipped Joyce. “It will keep you out of trouble.”

Buffy's thoughts drifted back to Tom.Had he found her letter? Was he missing her? Would she find time to visit the orphanage before starting at Hogwarts? With all the studying she had to do, she wouldn't have time for a boyfriend but she'd always have time for a friend.

….............

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Lestrange.... :-)
> 
> Does he know Joyce's secret? Is he who he says he is? And we have Moody is on the hunt and Buffy is trying to make sense of her life.
> 
> Any ideas? What are your thoughts?
> 
> It is high time Buffy got into trouble, don't you think?
> 
> How about a little late-night adventure in Muggle graveyards before we hit Diagon? There she will meet someone who we know from the Potter books and she outs herself in front of her new family. She never was good at having a secret identity...  
> Thank you for the reviews on the last chapter. They give me a push to write!


	24. A Night at The Leaky Cauldron

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Buffy is unable to sleep...

Buffy lay awake in the fourposter bed, her mind going over each of the bizarre things that had occurred that day. Below her, the pub's patrons were growing rowdier as the evening wore on. Snatches of song drifted up, the calls to Tom the barman for refills, drunken laughter, and the clinking of tankards. Buffy supposed the noise wasn't overly loud, most renting the room would hardly notice, but for an already hyped Slayer, it was enough to stop her falling asleep.

Frustrated at being unable to rest, Buffy sat up, smacked the pillow, and lay back down. It had been a long day and her uncle was planning an early start to the day, she really could use the sleep.

At around eleven o'clock she heard voices outside her room.

“... McMillan spiral dived,” said the boy. “He levelled out, completely missed the snitch, and then saw the bludger incoming. He dropped into a classic Sloth Grip and the bludger sailed overheard. It was then it happened... he tried climbing back onto his broom, lost control, and...” the boy snorted with laughter.

“And? What happened then, Alphard?” asked a younger boy's voice.

Alphard continued to laugh. “McMillan... he fell and broke his arm. It hung from his shoulder like a wet rag. But that isn't the best part. He...” He guffawed, unable to speak for laughing.

Buffy gave the bedroom door a dark look. She didn't understand why anyone would find it funny someone had fallen and broken their arm. Buffy decided that Alphard was a jerk.

“I don't understand,” the younger boy went on, still not getting the joke. “Players are always getting injured during Quidditch matches. What's so funny about that?”

The older boy chuckled. “When he landed, his broom broke... exploded... under him. They carted him off to the medi-witch's tent and then...” The boy laughed again. “He spent over an hour having the bristles removed from his... his nether regions!”

The younger boy let out a giggle and Buffy rolled her eyes.

Alphard laughter became louder. They were directly outside of Buffy's door now.

“To make it worse, his aunt's the medi-witch for the Appleby Arrows... Tonkins said... she even had to yank bristles out of... MacMillan's privates. Tonkins heard MacMillan saying that he'll never be able to look his aunt in the face again.”

The younger boy laughed so hard that he lost his balance and fell against Buffy's door. Buffy let out a groan of frustration, sat up, banged her pillow, and lay back down again. She stared up at the bed canopy and listened to Rigel's laughter. She was never going to get any sleep at this rate.

A door opened further along the corridor. “ALPHARD!!” screeched a high-pitched voice girl's voice. “Both of you, get into bed now!”

“Yes, Sis,” replied the older boy in a meek voice.

“And DON'T call me Sis!” The girl shrieked again. “Remember we are the Blacks! We have standards to keep up!”

“Yes, Walburga,” the older boy replied politely.

Walburga's door closed, and Buffy heard Alphard mutter, “You trout-faced, Harpy.”

Rigel giggled, and Buffy heard their footsteps move off. Then the sound of a door opening and closing.

Buffy sighed, relieved that they'd gone. She lay looking up at the pleated bed canopy, her thoughts returning to her new family, being a witch, lessons with Dumbledore, and the way her Mom and Lestrange had acted with each other. From that, she moved on to worrying over her Mom once more. They hadn't spent long with her before Joyce had shown signs of tiredness and they'd left her bed to find the ward's healer. A healer who had insisted on examining Buffy on her Mom's behest.

It seemed that Joyce Summers knew her daughter only too well and had asked the healers to check Buffy for injuries if they saw her. After offering Buffy a memory-enhancing potion, which she'd reluctantly accepted, the healer spoke about her Joyce's injuries. Despite nullifying the dark hex that Von Kendrick had cast, they hadn't completely eradicated all the damage. The healer admitted that injuries such as this, took a long time to heal and that it would be some time before Joyce was well enough to leave the hospital. From then on, she'd need to return for regular assessments and perhaps further treatment.

That sent Buffy into a panic. How could she go to Devon with the Lovegoods and leave her Mom? Peregrine had calmly assured her that visiting St Mungo's wasn't a problem as his home was connected to the floo-network. Seeing her confusion, Lovell explained what a floo was (a way of travelling directly from their fireplace to the one inside St Mungo's) and put Buffy's mind at rest.

A woman laughed in the bar downstairs. Buffy rolled over, picked up the clock from the nightstand and checked the time – eleven thirty-five. When would the pub chase everyone out and close?

She sighed. Thinking now of Hogwarts. Once she'd bought a wand and her schoolbooks, Professor Dumbledore would floo in to tutor her through all the main subjects. Normally, students weren't allowed to perform any magic outside of Hogwarts and Dumbledore had needed to obtain special permission from a friend at the Ministry. Buffy thought it would be the first time she'd had a private tutor before, at least, not one who wasn't teaching her to fight. Dumbledore was interesting. Lovell said he was a good teacher, firm but fair and Buffy knew that he would be no push-over. He was also the type who'd spot someone hiding a secret a mile away and try to squeeze it out of them.

Inside her head she could hear Giles's voice telling her, 'You must keep your identity a secret, Buffy. That's imperative.' She'd broken that rule. The faces of her former companions drifted into her mind. She had names for most of them now; kind-hearted, clever Willow, brave and funny Xander, and the acidic Cordelia. There were others who'd known her secret, but their names and faces still shadowy and indistinct in her memory.

Time slowly wore on. At around one am the pub below became silent, the only sounds now crackling of logs in the grate and the creak of the ancient building as it settled for the night. Buffy snuggled down into the warm bed as tiredness caught up with her and she started to doze.

From somewhere in the corridor, a door opened slowly and softly closed. Buffy's eyes shot open, and she tensed, listening. A set of light footsteps passed her door and then began descending the staircase that led to the public rooms below.

Buffy sat up in bed, staring over her bedroom door. Was that Lovell? They'd bonded over toad hunting, and her cousin had overcome his tongue-tied shyness to talk her ear off about rare magical moths. There was the lace-winged Kensington Cobweb moth that he claimed could only be found in the parks and green spaces of London. Had Lovell decided to sneak out and go hunting?

Climbing off the bed, Buffy padded over to the window and twitched the curtain to one side. Below her, the street lay dark and deserted. From somewhere in the distance, she heard the rumble of traffic as trucks drove through the capital and somewhere out on the river Thames she heard a boat's horn signalling to the dock workers. She waited, breathing in the smell of dust, woodwork, plaster, and magic, knowing that it would take a while for whoever it was to cross the public and private rooms below.

Her patience paid off when a figure appeared on the sidewalk below. Buffy peered down at the slight figure who wore a dark robe, with the hood pulled low over their face to conceal their identity. The figure moved, and her Slayer night vision spotted the hint of feminine curves. That was definitely not her cousin who was tall and gangly. Was it the girl of the screechy voice and the two laughing brothers, Walburga Black?

Buffy watched from the window as the girl checked all around her before crossing the street. Once on the opposite side, she set off at a brisk pace. Where was she headed? A party? Was she meeting a guy there? Buffy had a sudden pang of loneliness, wishing for close friends of her own and a party to go to. She was a stranger in a foreign country and, apart from Tom and Lovell, didn't know anyone her own age. Would she make friends in Hogwarts? Maybe her cousin would know lots of people and they'd allow her to join their group.

A large, pale moth fluttered against her window. At the same time, all the hairs on Buffy's neck stood on end as if a chill wind had blown onto her. Her Slaydar jangled, warning her that a vampire was close. Buffy froze. Without turning around, she strained her senses. A log fell apart in the fireplace spitting sparks and Spikey gently bumped inside the old wardrobe, but she sensed no one else in the room. It still didn't stop her confirming it by shooting a look over her shoulder. The vampire must be outside. Buffy leaned forward, pressing her forehead against the window and peering sideways through the distorted glass panes.

She soon spotted the three figures making their way down the street. Two male and a female, all wearing in dark clothing that was at least forty years out of date and brazenly striding along as if they had every right to roam the streets. Just seeing them affronted her inner Slayer. Before she realised what she was doing, Buffy was pulling out the boy's clothing she'd brought fro the orphanage from the suitcase. Quickly dragging on the trousers and swapping her nightdress for a dark sweater. After pulling on a pair of thick socks and boots, she hurried over to the wardrobe. As soon as she opened the door, Spikey shot out and zoomed around her head.

“I'm going out looking for night creepers of the blood-sucking variety.” Buffy grabbed the dark woollen cap off a shelf. Twisting her hair up into a knot, she pulled on the boy's cap and pushed stray locks under the fabric. “Don't be causing any trouble in here whilst I'm gone.”

The boggart's large eyes blinked innocently.

“I'm not stupid. I know you went out earlier. You did, didn't you?”

Spikey shook his head and Buffy let out a huff of disbelief. She eyed the boggart, considering her options. She could take it with her or... Lestrange's words came back to her, giving her an idea. “You can make yourself useful while I'm gone. Stay in this room and pretend to be me.”

There was a cracking noise as the boggart transformed into a mirror image of Buffy.

Running her eyes up and down herself, she winced. “Ugh, I so need a cuter outfit than this one.” She stared at the boggart, trying to work out what was wrong with what she was seeing.

Finally, she hit on it.“Nightdress! You need to wear a nightdress. And stay in bed. Should anyone come in or make you open the door, yawn a lot and pretend you're too sleepy to talk.”

Once it had changed, and she was semi-confident the boggart would do as it was told, Buffy grabbed the stake that she'd made from an old broom handle, tucked it into her waistband and set off in pursuit of the vampires.

All her previous sleepiness gone, it was dark, there were vampires to hunt and the Slayer was in her element.

….....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is being edited. I wasn't happy with it and rewrote it.  
> Don't forget to review!  
> Thanks for reading.


	25. A Slayer In London

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Buffy hunts vampires through the London streets and gets an unpleasant surprise

Once outside the Leaky Cauldron, Buffy set off down the street in the direction the vampires had taken. At the first crossroads she stopped, breathing in the cool night air and debating which turning to take. A woman laughed to her left, raucous with a distinct cackle to it. Buffy set off in that direction, following the sound of laughter and jeering calls as the vampires crossed through the London streets.

They were making too much noise to be hunting. Had they fed earlier? Was there a victim lying dead somewhere? Someone who could have been saved if she'd set out earlier? The thought made her uncomfortable, another death on her conscience. She'd memories of patrolling Sunnydale graveyards, picking up emerging vampires before they'd had time to feed. Here, she'd lain in bed getting annoyed about the drunks in the pub below her. Buffy sighed, not happy but knowing it was futile dwelling on what she couldn't undo. Instead, she had to concentrate on what was happening now.

The vampires took a right at a bombed-out building and as she hurried towards it, a thought occurred to her than almost stopped her in her tracks. What if they were vampire wizards? The first vampire she'd come across had been a wizard, she'd used his wand to stake him not realising what it was. He could have used magic against her. Buffy realised how lucky she'd been that night. She needed to be more careful in future.

They entered a section of London with wider and busier roads. Each vehicle that passed her had its headlights covered, shrouded, and slit so that enemy planes wouldn't pinpoint major roads from their lights. The vampires ran across the road. Buffy was forced to wait as a convoy of tarpaulin-covered army trucks rumbled towards her. The tarpaulin fluttered open on the back of the first one that passed, revealing a group of tense-faced men inside. Were they being transported to a camp outside the city or being deployed overseas? Buffy wondered if they were thinking of loved ones or of all the futures battles they'd have to fight. The wizards were also in the middle of a war. Grindelwald was stirring up trouble in Europe and America with his promise of uniting the Wizarding and Muggle worlds – one way or another.

The last truck rolled by and she gave herself a little mental shake. She was supposed to be following vampires, not thinking of the mysterious Grindelwald and the wars that she knew next to nothing about.

On the opposite side of the road, she cut down the short side street the vampires had entered. They'd long gone. As she hurried past a row of shuttered shops, Buffy heard what sounded like the scraping of a shoe on the cobbles behind her. Darting into the next doorway, she waited, listening and watching to see if she was being followed. She heard the creaking of a shop sign and the sounds of traffic, but no footsteps or anything else to signify she was being stalked. Buffy left the doorway and continued onwards.

At the end of the side street she took a right, walked a few blocks, then stopped, turning around to retrace her steps. She paused at the entrance to the street she'd come from. One of the shadows moved, then stilled. Was someone watching her from down there or had shadow's movement been caused by a cloud crossing the moon? Should she investigate? The cackle of laugh came from up ahead and she hurried on, determined not to lose them.

Eventually, she came to a brick wall topped with ornate iron railings and a sign for Hallgate Cemetery set into the heavy gates. Wrapping her hands around the metal bars, Buffy stared at the tree-lined driveway beyond. Large monumental gravestones stood on either side of the gravel drive and, from the overgrown state they were in, the place looked abandoned. Buffy gave the padlocked gate an experimental push. Despite the rust, the lock held firm. She let out a puff of frustration, missing Tom and his super cool lock-picking skills.

She had to get in. How? If she broke the padlock a passing policeman might spot it and come inside to investigate. Climbing over the gates wasn't a problem to her, being spotted while dangling from the top was. She had to find an alternate entrance. If the vampires had done it, so could she.

Moving away from the gates, Buffy continued until she came to an entrance to a path that ran parallel to the side of the cemetery. It was narrow, heavily shadowed by the six-foot-high walls to either side and gave out a menacing vibe. It was the sort of place murderers and rapists hung out, waiting for their next victim. Buffy shivered. Martha had told her the police had caught and hung a man for killing and brutally mutilating women in London, the papers had nick-named him the Blackout Ripper. Even though he was dead and Buffy was a Slayer, some of Martha's fear had transferred to her. For the first time that night, her Slaydar was quiet and she had the sudden urge to turn around, forget all about being a Slayer and head back to her warm bed.

But she hadn't followed the vampires all this way for nothing. A serial killer should be afraid of her and not the other way around. Buffy took a deep breath, put her reservations to one side, and turned onto the dark pathway. She'd hardly gone more than ten paces when the atmosphere changed. It felt as if she'd stepped into a freezer. Her breath fogged, and the feeling of dread became stronger. To her left, a grey shape emerged from the cemetery wall and floated towards her, its blurry shape steadily becoming more distinct and recognisable the closer it got to her.

A ghost! Buffy's hand reached around her back and tugged out her stake. It wouldn't kill a ghost, but it made her feel a whole lot better having a weapon in her hand.

The ghost of a cavalier halted only a few yards in front of her. He wore the clothes of his era, a long frock coat, bucket boots, and a large hat with a drooping feather set into the hatband. He waved a fine lawn handkerchief in greeting and smiled pleasantly, as if he didn't have an enormous bloody hole in his chest.

“Good evening, fair lady. Hath your swain deserted you? Care for some company on this night?”

Buffy's heart pounded. She swallowed, opened her mouth to reply but found she was unable to speak, her throat constricted.

Her mind drifted... remembering another ghostly encounter from her past.

“... I don't know if it's cloudy or bright  
I only have eyes for you, dear

The moon may be high  
But I can't see a thing in the sky  
I only have eyes for you.”

She remembered dancing to that song and then she'd shot her lover...

The vision faded. Buffy shuddered and took a step back in trepidation. Back in Sunnydale, the ghost of a male student had possessed her. It hadn't been a nice experience.

“Uh-no!” She shook her head, still feeling the horror of it. “No way am I letting you do the body possessing thing!”

The ghost's polite smiled dropped, to be replaced by a haughty expression. “Forsooth, Madam, what would I want with your body when I have my own?” He gave an offended sniff. “I shall bid you farewell, for I have manners, even though you do not.” Sticking his nose in the air, he strode through the wall and vanished.

Buffy let out a long breath, no wonder the pathway had given her the wiggins, it was haunted. She crept forward, warily skirting the section of wall the ghost had disappeared through and hurried over to an opening in the wall. The gate that had once stood there having long since rusted away, Buffy pushed the overhanging foliage to one side and entered the graveyard.

A pathway wound its way through the graves and she followed it. Buffy's night vision enabling her to see the details on the elaborate Victorian graves bordering the path. There were angels, some weeping and others beseeching heaven, Egyptian obelisks rose into the night sky like sharp jagged teeth, carved faces stared from stone slabs, and a miniature Greek Temple stood beneath the trees.

The path ended at the central driveway, the main gates where Buffy had stood to her left. To her right, the drive continued in an uphill sweep and disappeared from view. She guessed it would lead to a building, a church perhaps were they could hold services. Not wanting anyone to see her, Buffy avoided the driveway and cut through the trees.

Skirting tombs, collapsed graves, and thick patches of brambles and nettles, Buffy eventually came out at the front of the dilapidated church. She stayed hidden in the trees, scanning for signs of life or the undead.

The old church stood empty.

Buffy moved on, stepping over sections of broken cross and slates that had fallen from the church roof and heading towards a small rise of steps that led to the rear graveyard. Green eyes shone from the top of a tomb. It was a dog fox, its eyes reflecting green in the moonlight. With a little yip of surprise, it sprang off and disappeared into the undergrowth. Buffy followed it.

At the statue of a broken-winged weeping angel, she halted to check the area once more. Her spidey-senses reaching out, trying to pinpoint the source of the discord she was feeling. A twig snapped. Buffy spun, dropping into a fighting crouch, her eyes going straight to a pair of identical tombs built in the Grecian Temple style. There, in the snug space lying between them, something moved.

Buffy sprinted over and pulled the lurker out. Throwing him down onto a raised tomb, she held him in place with one hand whilst her other pressed the point of the stake against his throat.

A gossamer fine butterfly net fell from the lurker's hand and a glass collection jar hit the ground with a dull thunk.

“Lovell!?”

“Um, hello Buffy.” Her cousin gave her a sheepish smile. “Er, can I get up? I've lost my moth.”

“You've lost your moth?” Buffy repeated. She stepped back, letting go of him and hiding the stake behind her back. “What are you doing here?”

“I was following you, of course,” he said as if it wasn't a big deal.

Brushing off his coat, he picked the net and the jar. Raising the collection jar to his face, he squinted anxiously at the contents. Inside the jar, a large pale moth fluttered, beating its wings against the glass.

“You followed me here?” Buffy asked. What did he think he was doing, following her? That was dangerous. What if the vampires had caught him? If Lovell had died it would be her fault and she'd never be able to face her uncle again. For his safety, and her sanity, Lovell needed to stay... slay-adjacent.

Her eyes drifted to the moth net and then she shot a narrow look at her cousin. Lovell avoided her gaze and fiddled with the moth jar

“And the net?” she pressed. “You watched me leaving, collected your moth catching kit and trailed me through the streets at the same time hunting out moths? I've heard of multi-tasking, but that's ridiculous. I don't think you followed me from the Leaky Cauldron. I think you were out here already and spotted me.”

“Um, you might be right.” Lovell peered at her through the tangle of curls, a gleam of amusement in his eyes. “What made you sneak out?”

“Sightseeing.” Buffy pushed the stake into her waistband and pulled her sweater down to cover it. Best not to mention vampires. Both he and her uncle seemed pretty laidback but she didn't want to dump the whole Chosen-One spiel onto them on the first night. She still wasn't sure if her Mom knew or not, those memories she had were so confusing.

“And the sharpened stake?” Lovell asked.

“Er, that's my make-believe wand.” Buffy was glad he couldn't see her blush. Then, to make it worse, her mouth kept on moving on its own, “I was pretending it was a real wand, you know, practising in preparation for going to Ollie Anders.”

Oh God, she wanted the ground to open up and swallow her. She sounded like a dork. Why hadn't she come up with something more credible and less embarrassing? She should beat herself up on principle.

“It's Ollivander's,” corrected Lovell. “Why would you want to practice with a sharp stick in the middle of a graveyard? You aren't telling me the truth.” He chewed at his cheek, regarding her with a mixture of worry and disappointment.

“Hey!” Buffy pointed at the moth fluttering in the jar, hoping to distract him. “You caught the elusive Kensington Cobweb!”

She didn't think he'd forgotten about the stake, but the smile he gave her was a wide and genuine one. It was the sort of smile any teenage girl would find attractive - if only they could get past his initial shyness. 'Willow,' something in her mind whispered. 'He's shy like Willow was.'

“Oh yes,” Lovell replied. “I caught him over there.” He jabbed his thumb towards the trees and then raised the jar once more so that she could see the moth. “Do you see his antennae?”

Buffy nodded, wondering how he could see so well in the dark and Lovell continued, “The antennae in the male are much shorter than the females. Another sign he's a male are the darker markings along the leading edge of the forewing which I don't think you can see in this light so you'll need to take my word for it. This moth one, Buffy, is definitely a Lace-Winged Kensington Cobweb and not one of the more common Kensington Cobwebs that you find in almost all the green spaces of London. That subspecies is slightly smaller and the wing veins are finer and more -.”

A scream, high-pitched and feminine, reverberated around the graveyard. Lovell almost dropped his collection jar and Buffy turned, her eyes wide, ears straining as she tried to pinpoint its origin. The screaming was cut-off sharply and, once more, the graveyard was silent apart from the wind blowing in the treetops.

“Wh-what was that?” stuttered Lovell.

“I'm going to check it out. Stay here.”

Without waiting for his agreement, Buffy took off. Sprinting across open stretches, jumping graves, and vaulting tombs in her haste to reach the screamer. When she saw a clearing ahead she slowed, crouched down to remain unobserved and moving from grave to grave. Two vampires held a struggling dark-haired girl. They were the ones Buffy had been following.

“I'm a witch, you fools!” the girl screeched. “Get your filthy hands off me, give me back my wand and stick to the Muggles in future. You rancid smelling, vampire scum!”

The younger of the vampires twisted her long hair around his hand and yanked her head back cruelly. She let out a screech of pain and the older vampire covered her mouth with his hand.

“I don't see no wand,” the younger vampire said. He waved a carved wand in front of her face. Speaking to the vampire holding her, he said, “Do you see a wand, Josh?”

“Hmph, hmmph!” mumbled the girl, fury flashed in her eyes.

The older vampire holding her laughed. “I don't see no wand, Gilbert.”

“That's what I thought. No wand.” Gilbert threw the girl's wand over his shoulder. It sailed through the air and landed in a pile of nettles behind him.

Gilbert's face took on the visage of a demon one. “You aren't a witch,” he hissed. Leaning forward, he trailed a grimy finger along the girl's collarbone in the parody of a lover's caress. Buffy saw the girl shudder with revulsion and Gilbert smiled, a predator's smile that was all teeth and sharp fangs. “Not that we're the type who care.”

The now terrified girl struggled again but was held in place by the older vampire's arm. He ground his groin against her as she squirmed, saying, “We're the type who likes to play with our food first.” He nuzzled her neck.“There's hours to go before dawn. Think of all the fun we can have together.”

Buffy had seen enough. She jumped onto the slab on a raised grave and cleared her throat. “Sorry for interrupting.”

The vampires swung in her direction, shock on their faces.

“I was just wondering... have you seen my Mr Pointy?” Buffy gave a little shrug. “I seem to have misplaced him.”

The two vampires exchanged a look.

Seeing the vampires distracted by the newcomer, the girl wriggled harder, trying to free herself. Her captor chuckled. “Keep squirming against me, darlin'. I'm liking it.” He bent his head and ran his tongue down her neck.

“Eww,” said Buffy under her breath. The girl looked as if she was going to be sick.

“What did you say you'd lost?” the younger vampire left his companion and advanced on Buffy. “I'll help you find it, sweetie.”

The Slayer fluttered her eyelashes and gave him one of her best valley girl smiles. “Gee, thanks for that. I so hope-”

“Awww!” howled the older vampire. He shook his hand and sucked his finger. “The witch bit me!”

“Oh, don't be such a baby, Josh.” The younger vampire snapped, he took another step closer to Buffy. “What did you say Mr Pointy looks like?”

Buffy whipped out the stake. “Like this!”

She kicked out, her foot caught him in the cheek and sent him staggering away. Jumping from the tomb, she landed next to him and drove the stake downward, but her strike missed by a mile. He'd moved in a blur of speed, and was no longer in the same place. Off-balance from the leap and missed strike, Buffy stumbled.

“Bitch!” the vampire snarled, slamming his fist into the back of her head.

She saw stars. Unable to save herself, she fell, hitting a stone obelisk so hard that the column cracked and broke. Pain radiated from the shoulder that had taken the full brunt of the impact. She gritted her teeth against the pain and cursed her clumsiness. Had she broken something? No time to check - she could sense the vampire above her.

She side rolled away, barely escaping him as he grabbed at her. Flipping to her feet, she blocked the next punch easy enough, the second skimmed her chin and snapped her head back. He let out a mocking laugh, and spotting an opening, Buffy drove her fist into the vampire's cheek. He was either much stronger than she'd estimated or else her punch was weaker than she'd thought as he merely opened his mouth and snarled. His breath smelled like death - hers. Buffy knew she had to get her act together fast; there was no way she was going out like this, not on her second fight. That would be... embarrassing.

This time, she hit him with a series of upper cuts and felt satisfaction when the last sent him sprawling against a stone angel.

“Oi!” yelled the older vampire, not liking the way the fight was going. He half-dragged half-carried the teenage girl towards the fighters. “Don't – Awww!” His words cut off by a knee in the groin by the girl. Releasing the girl, doubled over clutching his groin. The girl ran and didn't look back.

Buffy didn't see her leave, she was too busy dropping to avoid the high-powered haymaker that the vampire had thrown. She felt his arm as it went over her and she came up, swinging her leg around to knock his legs out from under him.

As he fell, Buffy rammed the stake into his chest. “Meet Mr Pointy,” she said before tugging the stake free and stepping back to avoid inhaling dust.

“Nooo!” The older vampire wailed. He charged her.

With a slayer speed reflex, Buffy threw the stake. It hit the vampire's chest, piercing his heart and emerging from his back to clatter onto a gravestone. As the dust settled, Buffy looked around her, straining her senses. The trees creaked in the wind and further off she heard the sound of footsteps running down the ghost path. The young witch was running as if her life depended on it. Buffy hoped that she'd make it back home safely without her wand. She was just about to pick the wand up from the patch of nettles when the bushes behind her rustled and Buffy's Slaydar pinged with belated awareness.

“You killed my boys,” rasped a new voice.

Buffy turned to face the newcomer. This one, she sensed, had been the brains behind the trio.

A woman emerged from the bushes, her long, waist-length hair streaked with grey and her face that of a demon. “For that, you'll die a thousand deaths and your friend alongside you.” She pushed Lovell before her, one claw-like hand wrapped around the boy's neck, the other holding a dagger to his side.

“You're the one who's gonna die tonight,” Buffy replied lightly, taking a step towards her newest enemy. Was her cousin alright? Apart from his clothing being askew, she couldn't see any sign of injury. Lovell had lost his butterfly net but had somehow managed to keep hold of his precious moth. He looked terrified. Buffy could see how agitated he was by the way he continually twisted the lid of the collection jar. Even the moth inside seemed frantic to escape.

The vampire snorted contemptuously. “Who do you think you are, girl?”

“I am... me. Let him go,” Buffy raised her chin, “and I promise not to kill you.”

The woman cackled, revealing long, discoloured fangs. “Don't try dictating terms to me, child. You were lucky with the others, that's all. You're weaponless and I'm the one holding a knife to your friend's side.” She prodded the knife into Lovell's side and he winced.

Anger and protectiveness surged through the Slayer. “You hurt a hair on his head and I swear I'll -.”

“Yaaaghh!” the vampire screeched, dropping the knife. Lovell had opened the jar and slammed it into the bridge of the vampire's nose. The jar had fallen to the ground but the Lace-Winged Kensington Cobweb still clung to the woman's face.

Lovell backed away, Buffy hurrying over to him. The vampire batted the moth away and now Buffy saw the demon's yellow eyes were red and blistering. A gelatinous fluid bubbled out of the blisters and the vampire dabbed at her eyes with the hem of her sleeve and whimpered.

“The moth produces cyanide as a defence against predators,” Lovell explained, tugging on Buffy's arm and trying to lead her back towards the church. “It creates blisters on exposed flesh.”

“That's totally cool,” Buffy replied, refusing to move. “I'd never have thought of doing that.”

Lovell lowered his voice,“We need to go now, while she can't see us. I don't know how long the toxin will last on a vampire.” He tugged her arm harder.

Buffy pulled her arm away. “I need to kill her. I know what vampires are like. She'll come after us seeking revenge and others will die.”

“Buffy!” Lovell hissed and tried stopping her, but she'd slipped out of reach.

Without bothering to hide her Slayer speed, Buffy snatched up her stake from where it lay and slammed it into the blinded vampire's chest. The creature let out an unearthly shriek, fell to her knees, and exploded into a shower of black ash. Like a gunslinger, Buffy spun the stake before placing it back into her waistband and turning back to Lovell.

He kept his face averted as he picked up the collection jar. “You came out tonight to hunt vampires, didn't you?”

It wasn't really a question, he knew she had.

“Maybe...” Buffy swallowed, feeling uncomfortable Was this about her lying to him before? She hadn't wanted to lie, she just had to keep her job a secret. “I'm sorry, I'm not supposed to tell anyone. I think I'm The Slayer.”

“Slayer?!” His face wrinkled in confusion.

“The Vampire Slayer.” Buffy knew she shouldn't expect him to accept it easily. She'd been a potential, and even she'd been in the dark about slayers until Merrick had shown up. Even now, her memories of it all were pretty fuzzy.

“It's like a thing.” She waved a hand, not sure how to explain. “A secret identity type thing. Look, I'm not good with the 'splainy and the amnesia isn't helping. I think there should be a Watcher here to do all this, but I'll give it a go.” Hoping she'd remember it correctly, she cleared her throat and recited the words that continually invaded her dreams, “Into every generation a slayer is born. One girl in all the world, a chosen one. She alone wields the strength and skill to fight vampires, demons, and the forces of darkness. Stopping the spreading of evil and curtailing their number. She is the Slayer."

Feeling self-conscious, Buffy picked the wand up from the nettles and waited for his reaction. Most likely there'd be shock, vehement denial, and lots of confusion. She wasn't prepared for Lovell's reaction.

He sniffed, looking anything but impressed and said sternly, “Well, I can't see that excuse holding much water with the Ministry of Magic. Vampires have been protected under paragraph twelve, in guidelines for the treatment of non-humans under Magical law for well over a century. We studied it in DADA class last year. I've never heard of a slayer. If the Ministry finds out you're hunting vampires without prior authority you'll face trial. Murdering magical beings is a crime punishable by a term in Azkaban, that's a prison.”

It didn't happen often, but Buffy was stunned into silence.

Using his foot, Lovell poked the ash pile that had once been a vampire. “If someone makes a missing persons report, the Aurors will check their last known hang-out and this could turn into a crime scene.” He pursed his lips, scanning the dark graveyard thoughtfully. “We didn't use magic so nothing leads back to us. We need to clean away the ash and hope no one turns up to question us.”

….........

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N;
> 
> I hate writing fight scenes. I know what I want and what I see in my head but getting it down on paper is hard.
> 
> I also cut over a thousand words as I didn't like them. Anyway, more on the laws regarding hunting vampires in the Wizarding World later on in the story. Yes, I do know that they can use self-defence against vampires, werewolves etc, but Buffy would have her wand taken off her (she's not even got one yet!) and be suspended from Hogwarts (she hasn't started yet!) whilst she faced trial.  
> Lovell is protecting her.
> 
> More about where the Watchers Council is later. She needs to do her homework on that one. Sit tight. All part of the plot.
> 
> So her slaying activity is curtailed, she won't be happy. There is also a witch out there who might or might not have seen her face and seen her attack the vampires. Hmm, wonder who she could be. ;)
> 
> Oh, the Blackout Ripper was a real person. I had an elderly aunt who as a girl got lost once in the London blackout and was terrified the ripper would get her. I remembered her telling me the story so threw him in.
> 
> Thank you for all the reviews.


	26. The Book Of Bendy Bones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Buffy discovers the identity of the girl in the graveyard and she visits Gringotts

The Book of Bendy Bones

Despite her late-night, Buffy was awake bright and early the following morning. Deciding not to wake the others, she made her way downstairs, ordered breakfast and took a seat at a long table in one of the pub's side rooms. The owner, Tom, brought out a huge plate laden with scrambled eggs, bacon, sausages, fried tomato, and toast. He then retreated to the bar, polishing the same glass over and over as he watched her eat. 

Buffy didn't let the scrutiny put her off her food. Instead, she stared over at a moving wanted poster stuck to a pillar and slowly ate her breakfast. She was always hungry after a slay-night and, after eating orphanage food, this breakfast tasted like ambrosia on her lips. She could soon get used to eating big breakfasts like this. Not that there'd be much chance of having an after-slay breakfast in future, not if it was true vampires were protected. Buffy forked the fluffy, golden eggs into her mouth, chewing slowly, and relishing the salty taste of the fresh butter. 

She thought back over last night. Lovell had insisted on cleaning the 'crime scene'. He'd found an old shovel by the church and used it to scrape up vampire ash before dropping it into the grave she'd opened for the purpose.

“If the Ministry come here snooping,” Lovell said, wiping the dirt from his hands onto his trousers, “they won't find any trace of magic so they'll think the Muggles have done it. It isn't the first time Muggle vampire hunters have been in this graveyard, although they're considered a joke.” 

Buffy hadn't voiced her thought, she'd been lifting a stone slab and sliding it back over the tomb at the time, but she'd thought the joke was on the Wizarding world. Believing vampires would live peacefully, happily abiding by their rules? They had to be crazy! She hadn't been in Britain for very long, but from everything she'd seen so far, it was not working out well. 

There was only one piece of bacon left on her plate. With a sigh of regret, she popped it into her mouth and overheard the barman, Tom, say, “I don't know where she's put it all.”

Buffy took a sip of coffee and gave him a side-long look. Did he think she was deaf? He wasn't even trying to keep his voice down. 

Tom continued, “Pile it high, she said,” The downtrodden witch he spoke to kept rubbing the tables down with a damp rag, nodding disinterestedly. “Never, in all my days, did I think she'd eat that much. Do you think she's got worms?”

Buffy glowered in his direction. He'd never lived in an orphanage and had to eat a powdered egg or bread spread with tasteless margarine.

“Mornin' Miss Black and young Masters Black,” Tom said, his tone had changed, becoming deferential. “Hope you slept well?”

Whoever he was speaking to was out of Buffy's line of sight. They must have come down from the guest rooms above and stayed on the other side of the bar.

“Good morning, Tom,” a boy's cheerful voice replied. “Rigel and I both slept like a top, thank you.”

Buffy recognised his voice. It was the boy she'd heard outside her bedroom door last night, the one who'd told the story of the Quidditch player and his intimate splinter problem. 

“My bed was not aired,” a girl complained petulantly. “I also found a boggart in my wardrobe. It was a nasty, stubborn one, it tried hanging around even after I'd dispelled it.”

Buffy's eyes widened. “Oh, crap!” she said under her breath. After returning from St Mungo's, the boggart had been acting sheepish. She'd suspected it had left her room, but when she'd asked it, it had denied it.

“I'm very sorry about that, Miss,” Tom sounded puzzled. “We've not had a boggart in here for decades. I don't know how that happened.”

The girl tutted. “Thankfully, I don't scare easily. In future, please check my room for vermin before I'm due to arrive. This isn't the first time we've found pests infesting your rooms. My mother found doxies living in her bedcurtains the last time she took a room here.”

'Doxies in her bedcurtains?' Buffy pushed back her chair and went over to the pillar. There was something familiar about the guest Spikey had scared. 

“Yes, Miss. I certainly will. Are your parents be joining you?” Tom asked.

“My parents movements have nothing to do with you,” the girl replied sharply.

Buffy thought the retort sounded not only rude but also defensive. She peered around the brick pillar. There was a young boy of eleven or twelve, a black-haired boy in his mid-teens with shoulder-length wavy hair, and an attractive girl with long dark hair who looked familiar.

The girl continued, “I've been given the task of overseeing our Hogwarts purchases for this year. Once we have everything, we'll floo home. Now, I'd like to order our breakfast and-”

“Thank Merlin for that!” interrupted the youngest boy. “Sis, I'm starving. Make it three full breakfasts, please!”

“How many times do I have to tell you, it's Walburga, not sis!” the girl snapped. “I only want toast for breakfast. Do you want me to look like an Erumpent?”

Buffy leaned back and took the curved vine wand from out of her pocket. This was Walburga's wand. How was she going to return it to her? She couldn't march over and hand it to her, not without revealing her identity.

“You'll want ta eat in a private parlour then?” Tom was asking.

“Of course, we aren't eating out here with riff-raff,” Walburga replied snootily.

Buffy leaned back around the pillar and watched Tom show the group into a private room. She had a good view of the snobby Walburga from here. The girl had a strong jaw, a snub nose, and full lips which, right now, were turned in a downwards direction. Her two brothers followed in her trail, the older boy's chest broad and his shoulders already hinting at muscle. Buffy categorized him as the type who played sport and always have a girl hanging off his arm. The younger boy bounced along at his brother's side like a puppy until the older brother grabbed him in a headlock and dragged him along yowling. Buffy had a glimpse of Walburga rolling her eyes before they all disappeared out of view. 

Buffy leaned her head against the pillar as she thought about the Blacks. So the high and mighty Walburga had snuck out last night when her parents weren't around to keep an eye on her. Had she gone to meet someone? Why was she in a graveyard? Buffy doubted that the girl had gone to look at the graves and take in nature she wasn't the type. She was either meeting someone there or had taken a shortcut when the vampires had caught her. 

Buffy twirled Walburga's vine wand around in her hand. Unlike Dumbledore's wand, this one refused to produce sparks and felt dull and heavy in her hand. She'd speak to Lovell about the best way of returning it without Walburga seeing her. Maybe she could leave it on the bar, or something, and let someone else discover it.

Next to her face, the moving photo on the wanted poster caught her eye.

WANTED  
for Wizard and Muggle Slayings throughout America and Europe  
GELLERT GRINDELWALD

Liable to Change Appearance, Most Menacing And Extremely Dangerous!  
Extreme Caution Should be exercised as this wizard is a devious lawbreaker and will resist arrest!  
If located, do not try to apprehend him!  
Contact your local Ministry immediately!  
!!Reward!!  
50,000 Galleons for information that leads to his arrest!

Buffy studied the photo of the man smirking onto the camera taking in his short blonde hair, high cheekbones and the playful expression. Grindelwald raised his head, tilted it, to stare back at her intently with mismatched eyes. 

“You're wanted for slaying, huh?” Once more the man in the moving picture, raised his head, tilted it and stared at her.

Buffy wished they hadn't used the phrase 'wanted for slaying'. It was bad enough Lovell making her feel like a serial killer without seeing a poster for someone wanted for it. She had to put her vampire slaying on hold. It was going to be difficult, knowing that vampires were out there killing and legally she couldn't do a thing to stop them. What she needed was someone to liaison with the Ministry and give her the authority to go back out there and protect the innocent. Lovell had offered to help her research both the Slayer and the Watchers Council once they got to Hogwarts. He'd said the school library was extensive and they were bound to find something in there. 

“Buffy,” her uncle called and she looked around to see him walking towards her. 

“Have you eaten?” Peregrine asked. 

Buffy nodded. Her eyes went to Lovell who yawned widely, ran a hand through his messy hair, and grinned at her. Buffy return the smile, relieved she hadn't scared him off after last night.

“Lovell and I will eat a quick breakfast,” replied Peregrine, “and we can be on our way. We have a lot of shopping to do before lunch. I want to be home by two o'clock.”

Buffy dropped into her seat at the table and pouted. There was so much stuff to buy, how could anyone think it would take less than a full day? Didn't her uncle know how much girls liked to shop?

…....

After breakfast, her uncle led them out of the pub and into a small rear yard where the trash cans were kept. 

Buffy looked about her at the high walls and then shot Lovell a baffled glance, to find he was watching her from through tousled hair. 

“Watch,” he whispered and nodded to his father. 

Peregrine took out his wand and tapped several bricks in the rear wall. From the wall came a grating, sliding noise, and the bricks peeled back to form an archway. Beyond the arch lay a cobbled street lined with all manner of shops. It was early, and the shopkeepers were hurrying to prepare their shops for the day's trading. 

One wizard waved his wand at the shop awning which magically unfurled. From the doorway of another, a line of different sized cauldrons danced out to pile up neatly in a stack by the shop's window. Buffy spotted a shop selling clothes and slowed her steps so she could take in the fashions displayed in the windows. Some of the styles made Buffy wrinkle her nose with distaste, others although vastly different from what she was used to wearing, she thought would suit her. 

There were more shops selling owls, shops selling potions, and even shops selling skipping rats. Buffy felt like a kid at Christmas, everywhere she looked there was something fascinating to see.

“Money before shopping, Buffy,” Uncle Peregrine said, steering her away from a shop that sold nothing but flying broomsticks. “None of the shops in Diagon Alley will accept Muggle money, we need to go in there first.” He gestured to the corner of the street where a large, lopsided building stood. “That's Gringotts, the Wizarding bank. The key you wear around your neck opens your mother's vault.” 

Buffy stared up at the tall, columned-fronted, white building. The bank towered above all the other buildings in the alley and, despite the list, it was built to look imposing. As Buffy wondered how it managed to defy gravity, something moved to stand by the building's bronze doors. Buffy stilled. Her hand automatically went to the small of her back and the stake she kept secreted in her waistband. A small demon with a hooked nose, podgy face and long, pointed ears lurked by the bank's doors. 

She felt Lovell putting a restraining hand on her arm and the boy leaned in, whispering, “Don't worry, it's only a Goblin. They run Gringotts.”

Buffy could see the concern in his bright blue eyes as he looked from her to the Goblin guard. “What did you think he was?” he asked.

“A demon,” Buffy replied absently, not taking her eyes off the Goblin. “I remember fighting a Hellgod and some of her minions sort of looked like...” she jerked her head in the uniformed goblin's direction, “...umm, like that,” she finished.

By now, her uncle had reached the bronze doors and had turned to look for them. Lovell and Buffy hurried across the cobbles to catch him up. Beside the door, the Goblin guard's dark eyes watched Buffy narrowly as she crossed the street. Suddenly remembering that he was there to welcome, as well as guard, he gave them all a low bow. Buffy nodded politely in response and then followed the others as they entered through the second set of silver doors.

Inside was in an immense marble hall, with a long central aisle running the length of the chamber and a series of ornate crystal chandeliers hanging overhead. Goblins sat at the desks on either side of the aisle, each one busy writing in ledgers, counting out coins, or weighing and measuring large gemstones. 

Buffy and her family were the only customers at this early hour and every time they came to a desk the goblin working there stopped and peered at them. When Buffy looked back over her shoulder, she saw they'd gone back to work, their task more important than bank visitors. She turned back, keeping her focus on the back of Peregrine's bird hat and trying to ignore the jarring sensation she had at walking into a nest of Goblins. 

Peregrine came to a stop in front of a balding goblin's desk. The creature peered over the top of the tall desk to look down his long and crooked nose at them. 

Buffy eyed him and the desk set up curiously. Why did Goblins have such tall desks when they were such a small species? The only reason she could see was it enabled them to look down upon the witches and wizards who banked here. Did the Goblins have a height inferiority complex? Or was there another reason for trying to intimidate Wizards? 

“Yeees?” drawled the Goblin, already looking bored.

“We'd like to access our vaults, please,” Peregrine said. He swallowed nervously, “and make some withdrawals.”

“Name?” The goblin held out his hand, each of his long fingers was tipped with dark claw. “And your key, pleeease.”

“Peregrine Lovegood,” her uncle replied, dropping his key into the goblin's outstretched hand. 

Then Peregrine took Buffy's arm (she'd been staring at the cobwebs covering the chandeliers) and added, “This is my niece. She will be accessing her mother's vault today. Her mother's name is Joyce Lovegood Summers.”

The Goblin peered at her and Buffy gave him a cheerful wave, refusing to be intimidated. 

“Name?” The Goblin's voice stern, not liking being waved at. He squinted at her through his half-moon glasses. 

“I'm Buffy.”

“Yes, I'm sure you are, but what's your name?” 

“My name is Buffy,” she repeated with a scowl. What was wrong with people? Her name wasn't that odd. “Buffy Summers.” She reached up and placed the key onto the Goblin's desk quickly, not wanting to touch his creepy fingers. 

“Lacklustre!” shouted the Goblin. “Ledgers!”

Another Goblin appeared, this one with a thatch of bright, red hair and had dark eyes darted to and fro. With a fast bow, he handed over the two ledgers he held to the Goblin cashier. With a start, Buffy realised one ledger bore her uncle's name embossed in gold letters, the other her name and her mother's. How had the goblin got hold of them so quickly? Magic?

As he waited for the older Goblin to examine the ledgers, Lacklustre stared over, studying each of them in turn. He regarded her uncle first, his eyes lingering on the bird hat before giving Lovell a cursory once over, then he turned his tiny eyes onto Buffy. 

She watched him, studying her in an obvious assessment of her wealth and power. Buffy's Slaydar tingling at the scrutiny. 'Not a demon,' it seemed to say, 'but stay cautious.' The goblin was about to dismiss her when Buffy - she wasn't sure why she did it – caught his eye and allowed a little bit of the Slayer to peep out. 

There was a flash of shock on his face, quickly schooled away, and Lacklustre revised his opinion of her being below average. Somehow, Buffy managed to keep her face blank and not gloat. That would teach the Goblin for turning his nose up at her and her family.

“Lacklustre! Pay attention!” snapped the older goblin who'd been trying to hand back the ledgers. “Escort our customers to their vaults.”

Lacklustre led them through a side door to a dark corridor where a small cart sat on a set of rail tracks. He gestured to them to climb in and then took a seat himself. 

“This is scary,” Lovell whispered as he slid into the seat next to her. “Hold onto the bar in front and close your eyes if you need to.” 

The Goblin released the brake and the little cart set off at a fast pace, rattling down the steep trackway, turning sharp left, and then picked up momentum as the gradient became steeper. They dropped lower, taking a series of sharp hairpin bends at break-neck speed. Lovell moaned loudly. Buffy saw that both Peregrine's and Lovell's fingers were white from gripping the bar in front of them as if their lives depended on it. Lovell had his eyes tight shut and he'd gone a peculiar shade of green.

Lacklustre grinned at their reactions, revealing sharp, pointy teeth.

“Whoo-hoo!” Buffy cried as the cart plummeted down another drop. She stood, lifting her arms above her head, the wind whipping her hair back, and shouted. “This is like flying!” 

Peregrine reached over and pushed her back down into the seat. “Have a care!” he hissed. “You'll fall out!”

”This is ACE!” Buffy yelled over the sound of the rattling tracks and the scream of the wind blowing around them. “It's like the best...” she held on, nearly being thrown off the side by Lovell as they took a sharp corner, “...roller-coaster ride ever!” She hadn't enjoyed herself this much since before she'd woken up under the rubble. “I could ride this cart every, single, day!” she shouted. 

Lovell didn't answer, his lips had become green. Peregrine looked at her as if he doubted her sanity and the bird on his hat (red today) closed its eyes and shook its head. Only the Goblin grinned happily, it's long hair sticking out in all directions from the wild ride. 

Finally, the trackway levelled out, the cart rolled to a stop and they all got out. Lovell complaining of wobbly legs and clinging on to Buffy's shoulder.

“You're not gonna be sick, are you?” Buffy asked. She knew that he'd eaten a breakfast almost as large as hers. If he was going to start puking, things could get very messy.

“I'm fine now we're not moving,” Lovell replied weakly. He swallowed loudly, adding, “How can you enjoy it? It's terrifying.”

“People, er, Muggles would pay to ride that,” Buffy replied. 

“They must be mental,” Lovell replied, with a shake of his head. 

He went on, talking about all the other times he'd ridden the cart and stories he'd heard of dragons being kept down here, but Buffy wasn't listening. Her focus on the Goblin as he inserted Peregrine's key into the carved metal door. Curious at what it was like in there, she stepped forward, pulling Lovell along with her.

Inside, a long bench was stacked with neat rows of coins. A row of golden galleons along one side, silver ones in the middle, and bags of the smaller bronze coins the Wizards called knuts.

Her uncle picked up a large bag of knuts, then added sickles, and a number of the big gold ones to it. “I'm taking extra to cover your school supplies, Buffy. Joyce inherited a small amount from our aunt and our parents, but I don't think there's much left...”

That didn't sound promising. Buffy thanked him and promised to pay him back, then they all climbed into the cart once again to trundle along the track to Joyce's vault.

This time, Buffy was the one who followed Lacklustre to the vault door. When it swung open, she gasped. The bench in her uncle's vault had one or two rows of galleons. Here, the entire bench was covered in them.

“Oh!” Peregrine's brows shot up so high they almost got lost under his hat. With a frown, he asked, “Are we in the right vault?”

“This most definitely IS the right vault, Sir!” The goblin scowled, disliking the assumption he'd erred. “We don't make mistakes at Gringotts! This vault is held jointly by Joyce and Buffy Lovegood!”

Peregrine stared around him, seemingly not believing what he was saw. “This... this is a surprise. Yes, a surprise. I'd never have thought... I wonder where it came from?”

“A large deposit was made in the summer of 1927, sir. Sent in from one of our banks in Europe,” Lacklustre added helpfully. “I checked the account ledger before we set off. I can check the date and the location of the branch later if there's a problem.”

His words reassured Peregrine. He nodded, thoughtfully. “Ah, that explains it. It has been added to. I came here before Joyce set off for Europe and she took most of her inheritance with her. Joyce must have acquired more and had it sent on.”

Buffy wondered what her Mom had done to acquire so much money. Had she robbed a bank? Deciding that she could always ask in future, Buffy picked up one of the empty bags from the floor and began sweeping piles of galleons into it. 

“What are these worth?” Buffy asked, holding up one of the gold coins between her fingers. She wasn't sure how much to take. She wanted a new wardrobe of clothes, all her school stuff, maybe a flying broom, and there might be a shop near here selling weapons. Even if she wasn't going out slaying, she didn't feel comfortable only owning one stake. 

“A galleon is worth seventeen sickles and a sickle is worth twenty-nine knuts,” Lovell recited promptly. Not that it helped her any. 

Peregrine said, “I think you've more than enough for the next few years.” The sack Buffy held was large and she'd added a lot of gold coins in there.

“What are these? Buffy asked. Stacked neatly by the door were two waist-high piles of books. She picked up the top one and saw that they were all copies of the same book. “Seeing With My Fourth Eye by Benedicta Bones,” she read. 

“Ah, they're Auntie's books. With the aid of the spectrespecs she saw creatures others couldn't, she logged them in there, and then put it into print. Sadly, she never sold many,” Peregrine explained as Buffy opened the book. He gestured to the other stack where a pair of dusty winged glasses lay. “Those are her spectrespecs.”

Buffy flipped the book's pages, stopping at one that bore a rudimentary drawing of a creature that looked like a Fyarl Demon. Underneath it claimed, 'Horned One. Spotted in a graveyard, language unknown, grumpy, avoid.'

She turned to another page, the creature drawn there had eight legs, the face of a horse and the teeth of a shark. Buffy didn't recognise it. She flicked over more pages and stopped when she came to another creature she recognised. She'd seen this demon in one of Giles's books!

Benedicta Bones had drawn a picture of a young Suvolte demon and labelled it as a Nargle. Buffy read the next paragraph.  
'In the wild, Nargles can be found in any woodland tree, but always favour that which bears the mistletoe. Should they move into the dwelling of a magic-user, they will cause the home owner much dismay by stealing the possessions of said witch or wizard and causing the magic-user to believe they are losing their minds. A potion brewed with mistletoe and sloe berries * see potion list to rear, and placed outside will lure the creatures out the house, but the magic-user may find the Nargle returns after time. A ring of cork worn around the neck helps to dispell them.'

Buffy closed the book, her finger running over the embossed picture of an eye and the author's name. Who was this woman and how did she know about demons?

“What's a fourth eye?” Buffy asked. “I've never heard of it.”

“Ah,” Peregrine smiled gently. “Aunt Bones said that everyone, magical or not, had the first sight, the sight of seeing the world around us. Those who have magic have second sight, they can see another layer in the world, ghosts and so on. A few Witches and Wizards can see the future which is the third sight. Auntie said that the fourth sight is the rarest sight of all. Those who have it can see creatures that no one else can.” He pointed to the glasses. “The spectrespecs enhance that ability. I've a pair myself but have never had the gift auntie had.”

“I'd like to catch a wrackspurt as Auntie drew them as moths,” said Lovell. “You know that feeling when your head goes fuzzy?”

“Hmm,” replied Buffy, her head had been feeling fuzzy a lot recently.

“That's caused by wrackspurts.”

“I'd better take a copy then.” Buffy pushed the book and then the glasses into the bag. She wanted to study the book somewhere private.

“Do you need anything else from in here?” Peregrine asked, taking another look around the vault. 

“Umm,” Buffy looked around her, she had money, she had a copy of her aunt's demon book, and she had the cool spectrespecs. “Yeah, I'm done. Oh!” 

Something sparkled in the light of the goblin's lantern. A golden chain lay draped over the galleons. Curious to see if it was attached to anything, Buffy pulled on the chain. Whatever was on the end had become entangled between the rows of coins. She tugged it harder, sending the coin towers tumbling to the floor, bouncing, and rolling all over the chamber as she freed the pendant. 

Next to her, the Goblin let out a hiss. Giving her a dirty look, he crouched and picked up each coin with reverence, stacking them back in uniform rows on the bench. 

“What's this, Uncle?” Buffy held up the necklace to show him. The pendant comprised of a triangle inset with a circle, and a vertical line. She wondered if it was a sigil? A magical symbol for something?

Peregrine took the pendant from her. “Ah, that's the symbol for the Deathly Hallows,” he said. “The triangle represents the cloak of invisibility, the line the elder wand,” he pointed to the circle, “and that's the symbol for the resurrection stone. Together the three form the sign of the Deathly Hallows.” He handed it back to Buffy.

“It's from Beedle the Bard,” Lovell added. Buffy gazed at him blankly. “The story of the Three Brothers and their encounter with death. It's a children's story.” 

“Is it a dark and spooky one?” Buffy asked hopefully. She pulled the necklace over her head and lifted the pendant, admiring the workmanship of the creator. 

“It's about cheating death,” replied Lovell, gallantly taking the bag of coins and sagging under the weight. “Or trying to,” he grunted.

“Then it's my kind of story,” Buffy said brightly. “I'm all for the death cheating.” 

“It may be fiction or it might not be,” Peregrine replied mysteriously. At her questioning look, he continued, “A story for another time, I think.” He checked his watch. “We must get on, the shops will be getting busy. There are robes and books to buy for the both of you, not to mention Buffy's wand.” Peregrine gave Buffy a knowing smile. “Why do I have a feeling this might take a while?”

“Don't tell me...” Buffy said, getting back into the cart and settling the sack of coins onto the floor next to her feet. “...I'm guessing you've shopped with Mom in the past? She's almost as bad as me.” She gave her uncle a dark smile and under her breath muttered, “Yeah, almost.”

….....

A/N;

The graveyard Buffy found the vampires in I based on Highgate Cemetery.  
The story of vampire hunters (and wizards!) frequenting the graveyard is a true one. There is quite a lot on the cemetery, some brilliant Youtube videos and this site deals with the legend of the Highgate Vampire – Occult World (occult-world.com) 

Bones is a wizarding name, Aunt Bendy Bones is one of my characters. I chose to create her as a reason why the Lovegoods believe so fervently in Nargles and Wrackspurts.

I was hoping to include Buffy's trip to Ollivanders in this chapter, however, the chapter is already pushing 5,000 words and it would have gone on for too long! I guess I get the fun of writing it next.

Thanks for all the lovely reviews left and the kudos. Your encouragement is appreciated!


	27. Close Encounters of The Lestrange Kind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Buffy meets the Lestranges and finds out the curriculum at Hogwarts is not so different after all.

Close Encounters of the Lestrange Kind

“Isn't that the Minister who was with Aunt Joyce last night?” Lovell asked as he, Buffy, and Peregrine stood blinking in the bright sunshine outside of Gringotts bank.

Sure enough, standing outside Flourish and Blott's book shop was the Minister for International Magical Law, Bracius Lestrange.

“Should we go over and say hello?” Buffy asked, hoping her uncle would say no. The alley was getting busier, and she wanted to explore all the interesting shops and not waste time making polite chit-chat.

“We need to go into that shop for our schoolbooks,” replied Lovell. He gave her a lopsided grin, “Buffy's got the longest list of textbooks I've ever seen. Best to get them out the way first.”

“Ugh, don't remind me,” said Buffy, she went to poke her cousin in the ribs and Lovell jumped and curled out of reach.

“Hit a nerve, have I?” he laughed.

“I'm trying to forget the future and live in the moment,” she replied. “That perfect moment where school does not exist and only shopping does.”

“Well, whilst you live in your moment,” said Peregrine. “I'll call in at Slug and Jigger's to see if their last order arrived safely. I'll meet you at Ollivander's in a couple of hours time.” When he'd seen Buffy withdraw such a large amount from Gringotts, Peregrine had suspected the shopping trip might turn into a nightmare. A business trip to his friend's apothecary shop was the perfect chance to escape it.

They set off in different directions, Lovell and Buffy for Flourish and Blott's, and Peregrine heading to his friend's shop. As Buffy and Lovell approached the shop door, Minister Lestrange was using his reflection in the window to adjust his tie. He glanced over at their greeting, gave them a disinterested nod and went back to examining the shop window.

Buffy hung back and allowed Lovell to enter the shop without her. She hadn't intended to start a conversation with the Minister, but something puzzled her. “Mr Lestrange? Don't you recognise me?”

Lestrange frowned, squinting at her. “Should I?”

Buffy took a step towards him. Was the man short-sighted? Why didn't he recognise her? “I met you last night at the hospital. You were visiting my Mom, Joyce Summers.”

On hearing her mother's name, he jumped. “Oh! Buffy! I'm so sorry for not recognising you. My mind is elsewhere today with a small problem at the Ministry. Will you forgive my rudeness?”

At her nod, he stepped right up to her. His eyes running across her features, searching for something. Buffy eyed him warily, hoping he wouldn't try to delve into her brain again. A slow smile spread over his face, and there was calculation in his emerald eyes.

“My son insisted on collecting a book from here. May I escort you inside?”

“Um, sure,” Buffy replied, not sure how to refuse since she was going in anyway.

When Lestrange pushed open the door, a shop assistant rushed over to greet them. “Welcome to Flourish and Blott's, Minister! How may I help you today?”

With a politician's easy smile and practised charm, Lestrange put a hand on Buffy's shoulder. “This young lady is the daughter of a good friend of mine. I'd appreciate it if you gave her special attention.”

Buffy's eyes slid across to Lestrange. Two minutes ago he'd acted as if he'd never seen her before and now he claimed she was the daughter of his best friend? The man's behaviour was definitely venturing into the weird and unstable territory.

“Certainly, Minister Lestrange.” The shop assistant went on. “What is the young lady looking for?”

“The young lady is looking for her schoolbooks,” Buffy replied, annoyed she'd become invisible. Despite standing directly in front of him, the shop assistant acted as if Lestrange was the only customer in the shop. Putting her sack of money onto the floor, she felt in each of her coat pockets trying to locate the book list.

“Here it is!” She pulled the folded parchment from her pocket. “Professor Dumbledore told me I need to buy all the books on this list.” Determined to make the young shop keeper take notice of her in future, she bestowed one of her special thousand-watt smiles on him.

The effect was immediate.

The shop assistant's mouth dropped open, and he went from cool salesman to flustered schoolboy. “Y-yes, Miss.” He tugged his eyes from gazing at her lips and tried to focus on the list she'd handed him. “Oh, yes, c-certainly. R-right, I'll do it straight away.” Still slightly befuddled, he hurried away, casting a little glance behind him as went.

“Cruel,” whispered Lestrange with a smirk, “But nicely done.”

“Huh?”

Lestrange chuckled softly. “Turning on the charm, like that. You've left the poor man wishing he was back at Hogwarts. Try not to turn the heads of too many boys while you are there, Buffy. It will only upset your father if he hears of it.”

Remembering the letter she'd found from Hank Summers, Buffy doubted it. “He won't care. I have it on good authority that Dad has washed his hands of me,” she said it carelessly. The letter would have hurt more if she'd had any good memories of him.

“I sincerely doubt he-,” began Lestrange. Whatever he'd been about to say was lost as a tall boy with dark wavy side-parted hair appeared at the top of the stairs that led to the next level. From their similar colouring and even features, it was obvious he was Minister Lestrange's son.

“Dad?” called the boy, surprised to see his father in the shop.

“Ah! Here's someone I want you to meet, Buffy.” Bracius Lestrange beckoned the boy over. “This is my son, Marcus.”

The boy smiled politely, his eyes moving from Buffy's face to her Muggle clothing.

Bracius continued formally, “Marcus, let me introduce the daughter of an old friend of mine. This is Buffy Lovegood Summers, she'll be attending Hogwarts with you this September.”

The boy had manners, he held out a hand and said politely, “How do you do, Miss Summers.”

As their hands met, Buffy's Slaydar registered the usual tingle of a magic user. She noticed that Marcus's magical vibe was nowhere near as strong as Lovell's, nor was it as powerful as his father's. In fact, he -. Her line of thought skittered sideways as a light bulb went off in her head. Buffy tensed. Now, she understood why Bracius Lestrange seemed so different to her, although knowing why made the discovery even more mystifying.

Last night when she'd met Lestrange, his magical core had thrummed with restrained power. Today that power felt different, more muted, and distant somehow. Was he ill? Was he suffering from stress? Still holding his son's hand, Buffy gave the minister a sidelong look. Apart from a high spot of colour in each cheek, he looked healthy and very much a man at ease.

Buffy felt a tug on her hand. Confused, Buffy realised that she was still gripping the Minister's son's hand and the boy had been trying to break the handshake for a while. She let go, cringing with embarrassment. All too aware of the way father and son exchanged a speaking glance at her bizarre behaviour.

To cover her faux pas, Buffy looked around the shop seeking the assistant. She eventually spotted him behind the shop counter, half-hidden behind a towering stack of books. As Buffy watched, he waved his wand at the bookshelf and a slim volume slid out, it flew over a browsing customer's head, dodged an oblivious Lovell (he was walking with his nose stuck in a book), and finally landed on the shop counter where the assistant ticked it off the list. A list that looked similar to hers.

“Are all those books,” Buffy's voice squeaked in the middle, “mine?”

She wasn't a slow reader, nor did she think herself especially stupid, but those books weren't the sort you could read in a day. Some were so big Buffy thought they would take a lifetime to read them. Suddenly, that cold feeling formed in the pit of her stomach again. The one that told her she didn't have a chance of catching up on her magical education and she was going to make a huge fool of herself even trying.

Next to her, Marcus chuckled. “That is rather a lot of books. I take it the Hogwarts's curriculum is different from Ilvermorny's then?” He kept pace with her as she moved to the counter.

“Ilvermorny?” Buffy asked, perplexed. The young sales assistant added another book to the pile. “All those books... Are they mine?”

The assistant nodded. Buffy swallowed the panic. How did Dumbledore expect her to read and study all these books, practise magic and be ready for the 1st September? He must have had a spell backfire onto his brain.

“Isn't Ilvermorny the magic school you attended?” pressed Marcus, scenting a secret. “I take it you're a transfer student?”

Buffy picked up the topmost book, buying time before answering. The cover bore a picture of the moon surrounded by clouds and the title 'Unfogging the Future by Cassandra Vablatsky'. Just holding it caused a strong reaction in her. Bile rose in her throat, and Buffy disconnected from her surroundings...

'She was back in Sunnydale and had gone to see Giles about the increase in vampire activity. She'd heard him talking, his voice quiet and sombre - as if someone had died – and she crept closer. He mentioned a book of prophecy, then she heard her name and that she was destined to die at the hand of the Master the following night. Buffy could tell from his voice that he believed it would come to pass and she felt the world tilting beneath her feet.

There was a sharp pain at her throat, her lifeblood was draining away, and she couldn't get her breath.

Buffy blinked as the memory faded. She was back in the book store and Marcus Lestrange's eyes were on her. She'd zoned out again, and he was waiting for her to answer him.

“Transfer student?” Buffy repeated, her voice hoarse. She still feeling disorientated from what felt like a memory of dying. She fought to keep a grip on reality and not slide back into reliving the horrific memory. The boy was waiting for her answer. Should she pretend to have gone to this magic school or admit her ignorance? “I'm new to the magical stuff,” she confessed.

“New?” Marcus Lestrange smirked. “What are you? Eleven?”

“Eleven?” she snorted affronted at the suggestion. “As if! I'm fifteen! I'm just a late developer.” When the teenage boy's eyes dropped down to the curve of her breasts, she groaned silently. “Hey! Eyes up here, Buster! I'm not talking about that kind of developing!”

He flushed, hastily looking away. Buffy could see his father standing by the door, an open book in his hand, pretending to read and watching them. Buffy had the feeling that he would ask Marcus everything they had spoken about.

“I had a building fall on me,” Buffy explained. “After I crawled out from under the rubble I found that I'd lost my memory and my magic flared to life. My uncle thinks that the near death experience sort of... 'uncorked' my magical core.”

“So you were a Squib and now you aren't, and it leaves you with four years schoolwork work to catch up on? Plus they will expect you to take your OWLS at the end of the year?” He grinned unsympathetically. “Poor you.”

Buffy glared at him, but the boy missed her expression as he was examining her book stack.

He redeemed himself in Buffy's eyes by pointing at the large book at the bottom of the pile. “Hogwarts, a History. Dumbledore always recommends that everyone reads this. It isn't required for any of the courses. I wouldn't bother.”

Buffy went weak with relief. She'd been eyeing that book and dreading having to read it.

Marcus picked up a book with numbers and letters on the cover. His eyebrows shot up. “Arithmancy? Arithmancy isn't a core subject! It's an elective and not one of the easy ones either.”

“Professor Dumbledore wants me to read up on all the subjects before deciding what to take. He's tutoring me in the basics before I go back to school.” Buffy was getting nervous again.

Buffy took the book from him. Was it some kind of Math textbook? With a sinking feeling, Buffy flicked the pages to see charts, graphs, and numbers. They looked nothing like the math she must have studied in America and more like... With a jolt of surprise, she turned back to the first chapter, eagerly scanning the familiar charts with growing excitement. Numerology! She knew this subject! They were using the Chaldean system to forecast the likelihood of events in the same way Giles's books did. Feeling encouraged by what she had found, she put the book back down and picked up the Rune dictionary.

“Hey, I recognise all these!” Buffy said excitedly, her finger on the first list. “These are Futhoc runes! Giles didn't like them, he said that they never translated to anything of use for dem- er, what he wanted.” She turned to another section. “Oh! Cirthic runes, Pictish, Elder Futhark, and look, Gothic! I've had dealings with these types of Runic inscriptions before. Honestly, they aren't as difficult as the Sumerian texts I've had to deal with...”

Excited now, she turned more and more pages. “That's totally strange,” she muttered. “It completely misses out the Hungarian and Turkic ones runes.” She let out an excited laugh. “Guess they must have run out of pages.”

Marcus looked incredulous that she had recognised them. “You know these?”

Buffy waved his astonishment off. “It's no big. I'm no brain-box like Willow. She can understand anything, but I'm guessing something must have soaked in when I wasn't looking.”

Lovell came to the counter and dumped his textbooks down next to Buffy's. He looked over at Marcus, seemingly unsure whether he should greet him or not.

“Hello, Lovegood,” Marcus's tone was cool. Buffy guessed they weren't friendly. “Buffy's your cousin? I can't say I'm surprised, although she's much prettier than you are. She says she's an expert...”

“I didn't!” objected Buffy.

“... on Runes and Arithmancy already. Do you think she will find herself in Ravenclaw?”

“Are you two in the same House?” Buffy asked, looking from one boy to the other.

“No!” both protested with such fierceness that Buffy guessed their Houses were rivals.

“Perish the thought. I'm a Slytherin and proud of it,” added Lestrange, sounding offended that she would think differently.

Marcus's father had come over to stand beside his son and caught the tail of their conversation. “The Lestrange family have been sorted into Slytherin for many generations. If the Sorting Hat had put me into another House, I believe my father would have disowned me.” With a hand on his son's shoulders, he apologised, “I'm sorry, we need to go. There's a Ministry meeting that I can't be late for. Come on Marcus. We need to apparate out.”

They left, and Lovell suddenly remembering that he hadn't paid, began going through his pockets looking for the money his father had given him to pay for his textbooks. Buffy put out a hand and stopped him.

“I'm paying for these,” she said firmly. She ignored Lovell's objection, putting more galleons on to the counter. “It's the least I can do after all the help you gave me last night.” She didn't add 'cleaning the crime scene of vampire ash'.

“But that's what families are for,” Lovell protested. “We look out for one another.” He smiled, adding with a touch of sarcasm. “And even if you aren't put in Ravenclaw, we'll not disown you.”

As they left the book shop, leaving the books to be sent on, Buffy linked his arm and said, “You need to tell me more about the hat and the sorting ceremony.”

…......................

A/N; 2

I thought that Buffy would have knowledge of divination, ancient runes and arithmancy. She is probably going to be great at Ghoul studies too ;) Can't have her lagging behind Tom Riddle, can we? ;-)

YES. The wand scene next. It is almost written, but I was struggling with a certain part of it.

Thank you for all the reviews! You make my day!  
Thanks for the recommendation too. :)


	28. Ollivander's Wand Shop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Buffy ventures into a dark and creepy wand shop and meets ore than one wandmaker...

A Slayer gets her Weapon

I can't see Dad in there.” Lovell's face was pressed against Ollivander's shop window. “The shop's empty.”

“Do you think we've missed him?” Buffy asked, feeling guilty. 

They'd spent a long time in Madam Malkin's shop, Robes For All Occasions, and it had been Buffy's fault. After being fitted with their uniforms, Buffy had spotted the witch's autumn and winter collection of clothing, which led to a frenzied buying spree and even Lovell (to his horror), had been forced to try on and then gifted with new clothes. 

“I bet he's at the Leaky Cauldron with Mr Jiggs and forgotten the time,” Lovell replied. He began picking up their purchases from the front of the shop where he'd put them, carefully balancing parcels one on top of the other. “Will you be alright if I take these back to the pub and see if dad's in there?” 

Buffy didn't mind. They'd bought everything else on the school's list easily enough, she didn't see why buying a wand would be any different. “Sure, you go find. I'll buy the wand and meet you in the bar.”

Lovell rushed off, dodging around the other shoppers, and Buffy stared at the lone wand lying amidst the dust in Ollivander's window. The paltry window arrangement wasn't enticing to window shoppers. Wands By Gregorovitch had a row of charmed wands dancing in his shop window. Buffy had wanted to buy her wand from there, but Lovell had stopped her. He'd told her the Lovegoods always went to Ollivander's as his wands were far superior to Gregorovitch's. 

Buffy pushed the door open and entered the gloomy, dusty shop. Instantly, her Slaydar flared to life, tingling in response to the magic emanating from the thousands of wands stored all around her. The way the shop was set out, with floor to ceiling shelving, the shop reminded her of a library, but instead of books waiting patiently for someone to read them, wands were waiting for someone to cast spells with them. 

She hung around near the counter and when no one came out to serve her, wandered over to the nearest shelf to read the labels. 

“Ash, 11 ½ inches, extra whippy, core dragon heart string. Ash, 11 ½ inches, medium-firm, core dragon heart string...” It seemed this section was for wands made of ash. Buffy trailed a finger along the edge of the shelf and checked her finger for dust. “Established in 382BC and no one has cleaned in here since,” she muttered. 

Searching for something to wipe the dust onto, she spotted a cloth on the counter. As she was wiping her finger off, she felt the air stir around her and all the hairs on the back of her neck rose. Buffy whipped around, staring into the shadowed passageway at the rear of the shop. Someone trying to creep up on her.

“I know you're there,” she said, “I can hear you breathing.”

The shadow detached from the wall and a thin, young man stepped into the dim light of the shop. His hair was as light and curly as Lovell's, but where Lovell's eyes were a warm blue this man's eyes were so light a grey that they looked silver. He moved silently towards her, his wide eyes roving across her face. 

Feeling awkward at the scrutiny, Buffy asked, “Are you the owner?” 

“I am Garrick Ollivander.” His eyes still peering at her face. “I'm afraid that I don't know who you are, Miss?”

“You've never seen me before, I'm Buffy Summers. I'm here to buy a wand.” She smiled at the inaneness of the comment. “Which I guess is kinda obvious, since you only sell wands in here.” 

“What happened to your last one?” he asked, moving closer so that he was stood in her personal space. 

Buffy stepped back, disliking the proximity. “Nothing. This will be my first as I'm late with the magical development thingy.”

“How very odd,” Ollivander replied softly, taking a tape measure from out of his pocket and shaking it out. “Who are your parents? Arms out!”

“What?”

“To be measured, Miss Summers! To be measured!” 

Buffy lifted her arms and, of its own accord, the measuring tape began to measure the length of Buffy's arm. The wandmaker scuttled to the shelving behind the counter.

“Who are your parents and what are their wands?” he called over, running his fingers down the wand stack. 

“Mom's a Squib so she doesn't have one. And Dad's a Muggle so he doesn't have one either.” 

The measuring tape moved from measuring her height to measuring the size of her nose. Buffy's eyes crossed. “Hey! Get out!” She batted it gently away and it flew back at her, trying to start the measuring process all over again.

“That will do!” Mr Ollivander warned the tape. It flew off sullenly, to curl up in a box on the counter like a cat.

The wandmaker began sliding the wand boxes from the shelves, muttering, and pushing them back again. Finally, he found the wand he was looking for and brought it over to Buffy. 

With a mixture of nerves and excitement, Buffy leaned in as the wandmaker uncovered the wand. It was pencil-thin, stained a dark-reddish colour, and runes were carved along its entire length. 

“Dogwood, 9 inches with a unicorn core,” said Ollivander, taking it from the box and handing it to her. “Try this.” 

Buffy took it from him, weighing it in her hand to gauge it – the same as she did with stakes. It was not only lighter than a stake, it felt unbalanced and weak. “I think I'd prefer a different colour,” she said, trying to be diplomatic.

“A different colour?” spluttered Garrick Ollivander. “Miss Summers, the wand chooses the witch, not the other way around. You can't refuse a wand without trying it.” When she didn't move, he went on, “Well, don't just stand there, give it a wave!”

Buffy jumped and quickly waved the wand. Nothing happened.

“I told you it didn't suit,” she said, glad the wand hadn't responded to her. What she didn't say, couldn't say, was that the slayer part of her hadn't liked the wand. She'd known instinctively that it would be temperamental and liable to let her down in a crisis.

“Hmm, you're not a unicorn are you?” mused Ollivander taking the wand from her.

Buffy raised an eyebrow. “And you say that like its a bad thing?” 

The wandmaker put the wand back into its box. “Not at all. I shall keep searching, but we must avoid Unicorns.”

“Good thinking,” Buffy agreed without having a clue what he was talking about. “It's always wise to avoid Unicorns because of the rainbows and, um, other stuff.”

The wandmaker barely heard her, he dragged a heavy set of steps from the back of the shop into the passageway. Once happy with their position, he climbed to the very top rung and pulled out a box close to the ceiling. Then he trotted back down the steps, blowing the dust from the box as he came over to her.

“This one is pear wood with a phoenix feather core. You'll never find a pear wand in the hands of a dark wizard and the phoenix feather is capable of a great range of magic.” He hesitated, “That's if it likes you.” 

Buffy opened her mouth to say that she didn't like it, and the man raised a silencing finger.

“No interrupting! Remember, the wand chooses the witch. Wave the wand, please.”

Holding the wand as far away from her as possible, Buffy warily moved the wand to and fro.

BANG!!!

Thick, dark smoke filled the shop along with the smell of burning feathers. From somewhere nearby (Buffy couldn't see because the smoke was so thick), she heard coughing and the fateful words, “Oh, my! Oh dear! Offero! Finite Fumos!” 

The air cleared to reveal a smut-stained Mr Ollivander. It also revealed the broken, charred remains of the wand in Buffy's hand.

“Was this one a dud?” she asked. “Or is it... something that I did?”

Ollivander gently removed the broken wand from her grasp and, with all the reverence of an undertaker lowering a coffin into a grave, placed its remains back into the wand box.

“I'm sorry. I'll pay for the damages,” Buffy said. She felt as if she'd run over the man's puppy. 

Mr Ollivander took out a handkerchief and blew his nose. “No, no, it was my mistake. I should have known better.” Buffy thought he might start crying.

“Maybe I should go to Wands by Gregorovitch?” she said. Buffy chewed on her bottom lip. Why had she assumed choosing a wand would be simple? She should have known her Slayer essence would make things difficult. “I don't want to blow up any more of your creations.”

“Oh, no! You mustn't go there! The man uses Veela hair.” Mr Ollivander shuddered, making Buffy wonder what a Veela was. The wandmaker took a deep breath as if gathering himself together and preparing for a long day. “You mustn't worry. Wands sometimes explode and Phoenix feathers can be quite dramatic if they take a disliking to you.” He looked about, considering his stock. “The right wand for you is in this shop. I am sure of it. It's just a case of locating it.” 

Then he moved back to the shelves, flitting from stack to stack, trailing his fingers over boxes, his lips moving silently, and eyes darting up and down the shelving. Buffy heard him mutter, “Firm but fair... 10 inches or thereabouts... and rather combatant.” 

“Did I hear something explode in here?” a tremulous voice called from the depths of the passageway. An elderly man wearing half-moon glasses shuffled slowly into the shop space. “Oh, that smells like magic gone wrong. Has a phoenix feather self-combusted?”

“Sadly, we have lost a wand, grandfather,” Ollivander replied, tapping his fingers along the stacks as he spoke. “Miss Summers is a late developer and may prove to be a challenge.”

“Blew the wand up, did she?” Gerbold Ollivander asked. He shuffled around the counter to scrutinise Buffy, his thin frame and the way his spectacles magnified his eyes making him look like a stick insect.

“I'll pay for any breakages,” Buffy reassured the old man. “I'm also gonna steer clear of Unicorns and Phoenixes from now on.”

Gerbold snickered. “You're definitely not a Unicorn. A Phoenix might work, although it would need to be the right one.”

Garrick Ollivander dragged the steps to a section of shelving in the shop and climbed to the half-way point. He ran his fingers along the boxes until he found the one he wanted. Placing his fingers on either side of it, he pulled. He tugged harder but the box was stuck between the other boxes. 

“It's jammed in,” Garrick muttered, “no matter. I know of another.”

He moved the steps a few feet to the right, climbed up once more, and began pulling on another wand box. As had happened before, the box refused to budge, no matter how hard he pulled or how he tried easing it away from its companions. 

“Don't forget, the wand chooses the witch,” cackled Gerbold with mocking sarcasm. “ I told you this would happen. Your wands don't like her.”

But the younger Ollivander wouldn't have it. “No, no, it's just... stuck!” He tugged and pulled on the box. Eventually, he was forced to use his wand. “Accio wand!”

The entire section of the shop wall juddered. Dust rose and fell. Buffy and Gerbold coughed. Yet wand box didn't move an inch – it was as if all the wand boxes had fused themselves to the wall. 

Buffy felt her face flame with embarrassment. None of the wands in here wanted her to touch them. Did they know she was a Slayer? Is that why they wouldn't leave their shelf? Or did they know she'd blown up a wand and didn't want to be next? 

“I'll go to Gregorovitch's,” Buffy said. Garrick had started swinging from the boxes in a desperate attempt to pull them from the shelves. “Nothing in here likes me.” 

The elderly man let out a derisive snort. “My grandson insists on only using Unicorn hair, Phoenix feather, and Dragon heartstring for his wand cores. He thinks those three cores will suit everyone and doesn't like admitting it might be otherwise.” 

Garrick Ollivander, still pulling and tugging the wand boxes, gave his grandfather a dark look.

Gerbold shook his head at him. “We'll be here for weeks at this rate.”

Imploring Buffy to “Wait here,” Gerbold shuffled off, back into the passageway. 

Buffy waited for the elderly man and continued watching Garrick. The wandmaker was making a last-ditch attempt to save face, he put his lips against the wand boxes whispering and trying to cajole them from the shelving. 

“I have a wand for you to try, Miss Summers,” Gerbold's frail voice called from the rear of the shop.

Garrick gave up whispering to the wand boxes and trotted back down the steps to see what his grandfather had brought out.

Gerbold shuffled to the front of the shop, a slim and dusty wandbox in his hand. Placing the box carefully onto the counter, his trembling fingers shook as they removed the lid, revealing a wand made from golden wood lying on a strip of faded blue velvet. 

Garrick let out a groan of recognition. “Oh, grandfather! Not that wand again!” 

Gerbold glared at his grandson. “Hush now! Sometimes a witch or wizard will come along who needs something different. This wand -.” 

“Won't work,” snapped Garrick. “It's a conversation piece for wandmaker meetings, nothing more.”

“Will you shush?” The old man glared at his grandson. He let out a long sigh. “The younger generation think they're cleverer than the previous one. When you're as old as me, you get to know a thing or two. Let Miss Lovegood try the wand. I have a good feeling about this.”

Buffy had been in the process of reaching for the wand and stilled at his words. “How did you know my family are the Lovegoods?” She hadn't mentioned her connection to either of the Ollivanders.

“A wand maker sees that which others can't,” replied Gerbold, half-closing his eyes. “You have an otherworldly quality the Lovegoods often have.”

Buffy gaped at him. 

Gerbold opened his eyes wide and let out a low cackle. “That and I saw you walking down the street with the Lovegood's youngest boy and noticed the resemblance. Try the wand.”

Buffy picked up the golden wand. It was lighter than a stake, yet it didn't feel weak. It felt as if the core, whatever it was, had strengthened the wood. She closed her eyes and reached out with her senses. Instantly, she saw moonlit, the stars shining down on her, and the peace of a silent graveyard. Her inner slayer approved and urged her to use it. She held back. What if it didn't work? Would they make her give it up? She didn't want to. She wanted to keep it.

But the two wandmakers were waiting. Taking a deep breath, Buffy opened her eyes and waved the wand through the air. From deep inside her, the magic that for so long had been dormant flowed down her arm and into her wand. A shower of pale blue, pink, and gold magical sparks flew into the air, the sparkles dissolving as they hit the floor. 

“You're not in Kansas now, Dorothy,” Buffy said and swished the wand once again, just so that she could watch the pretty magical sparkles fly into the air.

The two wandmakers nodded with a mixture of approval and relief.

“So what's the what with this one?” she asked, holding the wand up to admire the design carved around the handle. Despite its lightness, the wand felt like a strong weapon. Buffy had no doubt it would be capable of impaling a vampire through the heart as well as directing her magic. 

When no one answered her, she took in the wandmakers blank expressions. “Okay, I guess I need to translate. What is it made from?”

Since Gerbold was woolgathering, Garrick answered, “Nine and a half inches of yew, unyielding, with a Thestral tail hair core.”

Buffy had no idea what a Thestral was. Yew though, her memories knew something about yew. “Isn't that the tree of death and rebirth?” 

“The yew tree has many legends associated with it,” agreed Garrick. “Some are a little superstitious about trying a yew wand, neither is it an easy wood to pair with a witch or wizard. It simply won't accept a mediocre owner. Before today I have only paired it with one wizard and that with a phoenix feather core. My grandfather can tell you more about this particular wand, for he is its creator.”

“That wand came about by accident,” Gerbold admitted. “I had set out to replicate the wand mentioned in the Tale of the Three Brothers. Some call it the Wand of Destiny, others the Deathstick. I struggled for many years to recreate it,” he shook his head, “but to no avail. Finally, I experimented with the wood from a yew tree that once stood inside an old graveyard and a hair from a Thestral stallion. Once, only once, did I manage to make the wood and the core bond together and since then I have been looking for the witch or wizard to wield it.”

“Do you know anything about wandlore, Miss Summers?” Garrick asked.

Buffy shook her head.

Garrick's face became stern. “There are some who say that the yew wand prefers the Dark Arts and it has the power of life and death.”

Buffy snorted. “A pencil can have the power of life and death,” she argued. “The weapon only kills because of the person wielding it.”

“Oh, I agree most fervently,” Garrick replied, his face relaxing its sternness. “I sought only to warn you what others may assume on seeing it. Personally, I believe the owner of a yew wand can be a most formidable protector and is as likely to be wielded by a hero as a villain.”

“You are young, Miss Lovegood, to be acquainted with death,” mused Gerbold, his voice so low that Buffy wasn't sure if it was a question. He'd taken his eyes off the golden wand to rest them on Buffy. 

“How did you -?” Buffy began.

“Only one who has not only stared death in the face but has accepted it, can master a Thestral core wand,” the elderly man continued.

'Death is your gift.' 

The words came from inside her head, sending a cold shiver down her spine. She pushed the memory away. No! She didn't want to remember. What was it with the bad memories? She fought against the memory and the pain it caused, holding the wand and grounding herself firmly in her surroundings. 

After a moment, she answered Gerbold's question, “Death... yeah, I had a close brush with death recently. I was caught up in an attack made by one of Grindelwald's minions. Others around me died.”

“Then,” said Garrick Ollivander with quiet seriousness, “my grandfather saw better than I. This wand, most definitely, chose correctly.”

They all stared down at the wand until the silence was broken by the shop door being pushed open and the sound of arguing. They automatically turned in that direction. A red-faced, angry Rigel Black entered, closely followed by his sour-faced sister Walburga.

“There'll be plenty of time to look at the brooms later,” Walburga was telling him. “There's no need to sulk. You need a wand first.”

“I shall be with you in one moment, Miss Black,” called Garrick Ollivander. “I'll just finish serving this young lady.”

Walburga cast Buffy a dismissive glance, turned her back on them and stared out the window. Rigel remained at her side, whispering loudly, “What's that horrible smell in here?”

Garrick Ollivander plucked Buffy's wand from her fingers before she realised what he was about and placed it back into the box. “That'll be seven galleons, please.”

Buffy counted the unfamiliar gold coins out onto the counter while the elderly Ollivander wrapped the box in silver paper and placed it into a paper bag. 

“Thank you for your help,” said Buffy, putting the handle of the bag over her wrist. “I'm sorry about what happened with the other wand.”

Garrick shrugged, “It happens, don't worry about it.”

“It's been a pleasure meeting you,” Gerbold told her, taking her hand and shaking it. “I feel privileged to have seen that wand meet its rightful owner.”

Buffy turned away from the counter, crossing the shop with her head down, and purposely collided with Walburga. The older girl stumbled and Buffy put out her hand to stop her from falling.

“Oops, I'm so clumsy,” said Buffy. Under the pretence of smoothing the girl's robe, she surreptitiously slipped the wand she'd found in the graveyard into Walburga's pocket.

“Get your dirty hands off me!” shrieked Walburga looking down at Buffy's soot-stained hands. “These robes are new!”

“Sorry,” smirked Buffy, sidestepping around Walburga to the door.

“Ugh, some people shouldn't be let out of the house, never mind given a wand!” 

Buffy closed the door on the girl's raucous voice with the feeling of satisfaction. She'd not only bought a wand, but she'd also returned Walburga's without the girl realising. Maybe the loud-mouthed Black would believe her wand had returned to her by itself. She certainly was arrogant enough to think so. 

'All in all,' thought Buffy, 'today has been a good day.'

…..............

A/N Thank you for the reviews!  
They are appreciated and do spur me on to write.   
I hope you like the wand that chose Buffy. It has the same core that the Elder wand has.

Next Buffy learns her spellwork and Dumbledore sees her wand. What do you think his reaction will be?

A few readers are asking when Tom is coming back. The answer is on platform 9 3/4. What do you think he's going to say to the annoying Muggle who abandoned him?


	29. Summer School

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Buffy learns magic

The sun rose higher, basking the beach in warm, golden light. A lone seagull cried in the air as it circled the cove looking for stranded fish left by the tide. High above, on one of the surrounding cliffs, Buffy sat on a rock looking out to sea. She hugged her knees to her chest, breathing in the fresh sea air watching a group of wading birds flying in to land.

Inside Buffy's head, a little voice niggled at her, telling her that it was time she left this tranquil spot and start back home to prepare for Dumbledore's arrival. Today was her first day of magic lessons and last night she'd been so strung up with nerves that she couldn't sleep. Instead, Buffy had sat on her bed, going over the Transfiguration alphabet again and again. After snatching a couple of hours of sleep, she'd taken off for an early morning run, her nose and her slayer speed taking her to the coast.

The birds completely ignored the triple row of concertina wire strung between posts - to keep out German invaders – and landed on the beach. There they began digging their beaks into the soft sand, searching for worms and shellfish. Knowing that she couldn't put it off any longer, Buffy rose, brushed off the grit from her pants, and followed the winding sheep path that led through the gorse bushes down the hill. 

Lovell claimed to be jealous Buffy was being allowed extra lessons, Buffy assumed he was being to be kind. Like he spent his days reading Transfiguration books or a Rune dictionary for fun. Lovell was more likely found with his nose in Caterpillars and Chrysalids magazine, searching the area for bugs, or helping his father grow medicinal plants in the greenhouses.

At the bottom of the gorse-lined path, Buffy took off at a run, arms pumping as sped along, bounding from boulder to boulder, and springing over a style set in a hedge. She ran across grassland, skirted crops and a stone farmhouse where dogs barked from the yard, and then took a winding cart track. When the track forked, Buffy took the path that led through a river valley. At the river she crossed by the stepping stones, entering the wood on the opposite side and then sprinted upwards to where the rook-shaped Lovegood house stood proudly on a hill. 

The smell of fried bacon drifted to her as she reached for the garden gate. Lovell and Peregrine were already up, she was much later than she thought. She hurried along the path, skirting around the overgrown dirigible plum bush, to the open door. Inside, Lovell and Peregrine sat at the table with the remains of breakfast lying in front of them. 

“Did you have a good run, Buffy?” Lovell asked. Peregrine didn't know how far Buffy ran every morning, Lovell did and was impressed. 

“Yeah, there was no one about by the river.” That was as far as Peregrine thought she ran.

Peregrine put down the copy of The Prophet. “Would you like breakfast?” he asked, rising to his feet and gathering the dirty plates. “It'll not take me a moment.” 

“That's okay. I'll grab something after I've showered.” Buffy replied, snatching up the remaining piece of buttered toast from the table. Taking a bite from it, she headed for the metal spiral staircase in the centre of the building. 

“Don't take long!” Peregrine called after her. “Professor Dumbledore will be here within the hour.”

“I won't!” She shouted over her shoulder, rounding the stairs and going up to the next level where her bedroom was. 

After showering, Buffy opened the bathroom door to find Lovell waiting for her. 

“Professor Dumbledore's here!” he hissed in a panic. “Dad told me to come and get you. We're going into Otterly St Catchpole to give you some space.”

“Crap!” Buffy made a dive for her bedroom door. “Tell him I'll be down in five, it's gonna be more like fifteen, but tell him five.” 

Opening the wardrobe to take out a dress, Spikey picked up on her agitation and floated out of his box curious to see what had upset her. His big round eyes stared at her as she pulled the dress over her head and began buttoning the bodice. 

“Professor Dumbledore is downstairs,” Buffy said, smoothing the skirts down and then going to sit at the dressing table and picking up the hairbrush. “I'm running late.”

There was a sharp crack. In the boggart's place stood Gellert Grindelwald, the blonde dark wizard stuck his nose into the air and struck a haughty pose. Buffy snorted a laugh. Encouraged by her reaction, the Gellert Grindelwald boggart cocked his head at her questioningly and pointed to the floor. 

“No!” Buffy squeaked in alarm. She lowered her voice. “Do not go downstairs.” She pointed her hairbrush at the boggart. “I mean it. Bad Spikey. This is serious. No scaring him.” 

Grindelwald boggart rolled his eyes and reverted to its puffer fish form. Drifting over to where she sat, the little boggart peered over her shoulder as she applied a small amount of make-up to her face.

“I know you've been a good boggart and avoided Uncle Peregrine,” Buffy said. Sometimes when she spoke to the boggart, it felt as if she was training a puppy - praising it for good behaviour and telling it off when it had been naughty. 

So far, she'd managed to keep the boggart's presence a secret from Uncle Peregrine. Lovell knew all about her boggart though. On her first night at the Lovegood house, Lovell had taken her out moth hunting (something Buffy had no intention of ever repeating). When they'd gone back to Buffy's room, a heavy-set man dressed in breeches and wearing a tweed jacket burst out of her wardrobe. Lovell had staggered back in fear, whilst Buffy freaked out and threw 'A Beginners Guide to Transfiguration' at the scarred stranger.

The chastened boggart had sheepishly reverted to its natural form, leaving an embarrassed, Buffy to apologise profusely. Luckily, Lovell had been so relieved that Silvanus Kettleburn, a Hogwarts professor who taught Care of Magical Creatures, wasn't really in his house that he'd taken the boggart in his stride.

Buffy applied lipstick and making eye contact with the boggart in the reflection, said, “Dumbledore is here to tutor me in magic as I'm behind. I don't want to be bullied at school for being brain challenged.” 

Spikey puffed his little body up until it was twice its usual size and then bared his sharp teeth. 

He was trying to say he'd protect her. Buffy gave the boggart an affectionate pat on top of its spikey head. “Thanks, Spikey. I'm not scared of those magic kids, but I appreciate the support. Just don't go scaring Dumbledore or letting him know you're still around.”

Once the boggart had gone to his box inside the wardrobe, Buffy looked around for her shoes and, not finding them, decided to do without. As she descended the spiral staircase, her bare feet almost soundless on the metal treads, she overheard her name being mentioned. Instantly, she stilled.

“Did Buffy have sufficient money to buy all her school supplies?” she heard Dumbledore say. “I gave her a list with rather a lot of books to buy and forgot to mention that we supply funding for those who may struggle financially.”

There was the rattle of crockery, a cup being replaced into its saucer, and Peregrine replied, “She was well able to afford her school supplies. My sister is richer than expected.”

There was a weighty silence, Buffy rested her head against the central post of the staircase and waited for Dumbledore's reply.

“Were they recent deposits?” Dumbledore inquired. The question was a phrased casually, yet Buffy sensed that he wouldn't have asked if it wasn't important to him for some reason.

'Nosy old man,' Buffy thought, making no attempt to stop eavesdropping.

“Ah, you're thinking they were maintenance payments from Buffy's father?” Peregrine replied. 

Buffy wrinkled her nose. She'd seen her Dad's letter, that was unlikely.

Dumbledore must have nodded in affirmation as Peregrine went on, “T'was nothing to do with that Hank Summers. Joyce told me that he's washed his hands of her and Buffy. Said he thinks more of his new woman than them. No, my sister told Buffy that when she was in Europe she made several good art investments. The money was deposited back in the summer of '27.”

“So definitely no further deposits since then?” Dumbledore pressed. “Nothing deposited in the last few months?”

Buffy's brows drew together. Why so much interest in her Mom's account? 

“Nothing. I think Joyce left America with very little,” Peregrine replied. “They aren't poor, and they'll always have a home with me.”

Dumbledore changed the subject. “And Buffy? What do you think of her? Is she like your sister in temperament? I recall meeting Joyce with your parents and she always seemed shy. That is until she left for Europe...”

“Our parents were very protective of her, you can't blame Joyce for running a little wild after she left home. It wasn't easy for her being a Squib in magical society.” 

Buffy tilted her head. Was Peregrine's voice sharp and defensive, or was she imagining it?

“Buffy's a lot like Joyce, but she isn't as naïve as Joyce was,” continued Peregrine in a milder tone. “She's brave, kind to Lovell, keen to learn, and looking forward to Hogwarts. I have a suspicion that she has the fourth sight and you'll not find her lacking in the...”

Buffy decided that she'd eavesdropped enough and bounced down the steps, a ready smile on her face. Not that she felt all that ready, but a fake smile had always helped her face dark demons, she didn't see why it wouldn't work with magical professors.

In the kitchen, Dumbledore and Peregrine were both sat at the table. Buffy noted that Lovell was absent – so much for him wishing he was having extra lessons over the summer. 

“I'm sorry I kept you waiting,” she widened the smile, giving him a full blast of the finest Buffy charm and, after what felt like a long moment, he gave her a hesitant smile in response.

Uncle Peregrine excused himself, and Buffy took the seat he vacated. 

“I didn't know what books to bring,” Buffy said, losing her smile as she realised that she should have at least brought a notebook and a quill down from her room with her.

“You have your wand?” Dumbledore asked.

“Sure.” That was something she did have. The dress from Madam Malkin's that she wore came with a handy wand pocket in the skirt. Buffy took it out and placed it in front of her on the table. Dumbledore leaned over, picked it up, and, pushing his glasses up his nose, began examining it. 

“Yew?” He gave the wand an experimental wave, and a sluggish spark rose sullenly from the tip. “This works well for you?”

“Yeah.” She wasn't going to admit to blowing up one wand or how the others had glued themselves to the shelves.

“It has bonded to you very quickly,” he observed. “I doubt that I could perform the simplest spell well with this.”

She nodded. “That's what my uncle said when he tried it. The core is made from Thestral hair. Those creatures are linked to boundaries and crossing the dimensions.” 

It was an obscure reference that Buffy had found about Thestral's in one of Uncle Peregrine's books and one she preferred to the normal negativity written about Thestrals. Buffy knew that the combination of yew and Thestral hair would instil suspicion in superstitious people. Some viewed the winged, carnivorous horses as harbingers of death. She also wasn't going to tell anyone that when Gerbold made this wand he'd originally set out to recreate the Deathstick. 

“Hmm.” Dumbledore's expression had sharpened, a small tic played by his eye, gone as fast as it appeared. “That's quite a formidable wand,” he said quietly.

“Gerbold Ollivander made it, not Garrick. They thought it must have chosen me because of my recent brush with death.” Buffy didn't add the wood had come from a tree that grew in a graveyard. Nor did she add that since she'd hung out in graveyards in the past, the wand might think she was a kindred spirit.

“I'm sure it's more to do with your magical potential than your brush with death,” Dumbledore said evenly. “It is a powerful wand. You need to study hard to be worthy of it.”

He handed the golden wand back to her.

He continued, “Before we start, you do know that normally you are not allowed to use magic outside of Hogwarts until you are seventeen? I had to obtain special permission to teach you in this house throughout August.”

Buffy smiled, “It has been said, on numerous occasions.”

“I'm sure it has.” Dumbledore didn't smile, but his eyes twinkled. “Have you tried any magic yet?” 

“My uncle showed me a couple of things,” she replied offhandedly. Peregrine hadn't wanted to teach her any magic, he'd been worried about breaking Ministry rules and wanted to wait for Dumbledore. Buffy, however, had pestered until he'd given in and taught her a couple of basic spells which would be useful around the house.

“And they are?”

“I can do this.” Buffy raised the wand and drew a small loop into the air with the tip. “Lumos.” 

The end of the wand lit with a light so bright that it lit up the entire room and Dumbledore was forced to shield his eyes. 

“Eek! Sorry! Nicht, Not, NOX!” Buffy squeaked and the wandlight died away. “It isn't easy working out how much power to put into it. If I use too little nothing happens, too much and it turns into a beacon that draws in enemy planes and ships at sea.” 

“Your power fluctuating is quite normal,” said Dumbledore reassuringly. “When a child's magical core flares to life, the magic occurs in fits and starts. Over time it settles and you'll learn how much power to put into each spell. You have done well learning the wand-lighting and wand-extinguishing charms so quickly. Just be careful of your pronunciation.” 

“Um, I also tried this one last night.” Buffy pointed her wand at the fireplace “Incendio!” A fire sprung to life in the grate, the flames blazing higher and higher until they were roaring up the chimney.

“That would give Santa a shock,” Buffy said. She made a sweep with her wand and quietly said, “Finite.” 

Inside the fireplace, the flames extinguished.

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled “Well done! What about Transfiguration? Have you tried any Transfiguration spells yet?”

When she shook her head, he took an apple from his pocket and placed it on the table. “Tell me what you make of this.”

Buffy picked up the apple, rubbed it between her hands and sniffed it. She placed it down onto the table. “That isn't an apple, is it?”

Dumbledore sat up a little straighter, his eyes intense. “You are correct. What gave it away to you?”

“I'm not sure.” She shrugged. “A feeling.” Buffy couldn't say that her inner Slaydar told her there was something wrong with the apple. She could sense magic and wrongness about it.

“Hmm, how unusual.” Putting aside her reaction to the apple, Dumbledore said, “Watch.” With all the showmanship of an on-stage magician, he made a circular motion with his wand. “Revelio!” 

In place of the apple, a small, white mouse with dark eyes stood on the table. It looked about it, then sat on its hind legs and began washing its whiskers.

“I don't like that,” Buffy said. 

The coldness of her voice surprised Dumbledore, he'd been expecting a far different reaction from her. He shot a confused and questioning look at her.

“Turning a mouse into an apple might give it brain damage.”

The tension and confusion eased from Dumbledore's face. “I assure you,” he replied as soothingly as he could, “the mouse is perfectly alright.”

“How do you know? Have you ever had your heart turned into a pip? Your brain made into an apple core? I bet you'd be totally wigged if it happened to you.”

“Transfiguring humans is possible, and yes, I've had it done to me.” He rose to his feet and turned slowly around. “See, no lasting consequences.” Ignoring the sceptical look she gave him, he sat back down and continued. “There are also Animagi. They are people who are able to turn themselves into an animal-.

“Like werewolves?-”

“Werewolves are different. They have been infected and can't stop themselves from changing into a werewolf, or losing their identity when transformed. An Animagus is very different. They change at will and remain fully aware of who they are when in animal form,” Dumbledore explained.

“But that mouse was an apple. What if I'd taken a bite from it?” Buffy countered. “It might have lost a leg or its head.” She made a face. “And... eww! I'd have eaten raw mouse.” 

“I wouldn't have let you eat it,” Dumbledore assured her. “We keep a number of creatures at Hogwarts for the students to practise their spells on. The pupils are constantly monitored and the creatures live out their lives there. However, you make a good point. Magic should be learned under supervision, so that if anything goes wrong people are on hand to put it right.”

Buffy watched the mouse scampering across the table, its whiskers and nose twitching as it searched for breakfast crumbs. “Are you sure the mouse is fine?” she asked again. “I don't want to do any magic that involves torturing the innocent. That would be wrong.”

She didn't see him, her eyes were on the mouse, but Dumbledore relaxed for the first time since he'd seen Buffy's wand. “I'm quite sure. Now, let us proceed with our lessons. You aren't ready to turn a mouse into an apple, but today you'll learn how to change a match into a needle.”


	30. The Hogwarts Express

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Buffy catches the Hogwarts Express and Tom Riddle has his first glimpse of Buffy the witch.

The Hogwarts Express.

Tuesday, September 1st 1942

Inside Kings Cross station, Joyce Summers rushed across the foyer to check the time on the station clock whilst Buffy and Lovell found two carts to load their school trunks onto. Once loaded up, the pair hurried across to where Joyce waited for them.

“What took you so long?” she asked.

“There were none in the stand!” Buffy called, the cart bouncing as she pushed it. 

“Luckily, I remembered that there are usually a couple of trolleys near the guard's office,” Lovell added.

“Yeah, we took them while his back was turned,” Buffy admitted cheerfully and without any shame.

Joyce frowned, looking a tad worried that her daughter and nephew had stolen the guard's carts. “Buffy! You didn't?!”

“We're only borrowing them. He can have them back when we've finished with them.” To deflect any lectures, Buffy added, “What time is it, Mom?”

“It's twenty to eleven.” Joyce gave the laden carts an uneasy look but decided that since they were running late there was no time for a lecture. “Will you be alright pushing those carts? We need to hurry.”

“Mom, we're fine. Stop fussing, we have plenty of time.” 

The three walked quickly, Joyce's heels clicking on the hard floor of the building, Lovell happily pushing his cart which rolled smoothly along and Buffy gritting her teeth and fighting with hers. She'd just thought she'd gotten it rolling smoothly when out of the blue, it spun sideways. Buffy yanked on the handle, pulling it back in line. She leaned forward as she pushed, to stare at the front wheel. The way it kept spinning in all different directions made her think it had been left at the guard's office because it was faulty.

“I think I have a dud cart,” she called, rushing to catch up to Lovell and her Mom who'd slowed down when they'd realised she'd fallen behind. “It has a dodgy wheel.”

Buffy took her place, walking behind her mother and alongside Lovell. The three of them took up a lot of room and other passengers had to dodge them. One commuter swore at Buffy when her cart suddenly swung directly in front of him and he almost fell over it.

“Oops, sorry!” Buffy apologised, dragging the cart out of his way. “It's the cart. It isn't my driving skills.”

Looking unconvinced, the man gave her the stink-eye and scuttled off. Buffy hurried again to where her Mom and Lovell were waiting for her on a footbridge. Joyce Summers staring pointedly at the station clock and Lovell pushing his toad back into his pocket.

“Do you still have your wand, Honey?” Joyce Summers called over to Buffy. 

Buffy nodded absently, still struggling with the cart. She'd been asked that question several times already that morning. 

“Are you sure you didn't leave it in the taxi? I saw you taking it out in there.”

Buffy rolled her eyes. As if she'd lose her wand! Risking the life and limbs of a passerby, she took a hand off the cart and pulled the wand from the back of her waistband. “See?” She waved it in the air. “It's right here.”

“Don't do that here!” Joyce said, shooting worried looks at the Muggle station guards and passengers to see if anyone had noticed. No one had. 

Buffy's cart veered off course again, this time looking set to fly off the bridge. Joyce grabbed the handle, helping to keep it in line while Buffy put her wand away.

“Don't keep it in your waistband,” Joyce scolded. “It isn't a safe place to carry it. What happens if it shoots out a spell and causes an injury?”

“Then I won't be able to sit down for a while,” Buffy replied with a grin. “It'll be too ouchy. Don't worry about it, Mom.” 

“I'm your mother, worrying about you is what I do.” Joyce returned. “I'm going to send you an arm holster. I'm not happy with you keeping it in the back of your waistband. Even if it doesn't accidentally cast a spell, you might accidentally sit on it.” 

They passed platforms 7 and 8, and were approaching 9 and 10 when another worrying thought occurred to Joyce. “Lovell, do you still have your toad?” 

Lovell's toad was the main reason they were running late. Just as the taxi drew up, Lovell had discovered Knuts was missing. They'd all spent several minutes turning the place over trying to find it, only to find it sat on top of Lovell's trunk watching them.

Lovell obligingly let go of his cart and tapped his pocket. “Knuts is still there, Aunt Joyce.” 

The front wheel of Buffy's cart spun and the trolley tried swinging sideways. She wrestled with it and brought it back into line. “I wish I had another cart,” she complained.

“I had a trolley like that in my first year,” replied Lovell from his spot beside her. “It took off on platform 9 ¾ and I nearly fell off the platform and onto the rails. Everyone laughed at me.”

“That's wrong of them,” Buffy said grimly. “They wouldn't have laughed if I'd been there.” From what her cousin told her about Hogwarts there was a fair amount of bullying and tormenting of others going on there. 

Lovell shrugged. “I was more worried about the contents of my trunk then being laughed at.”

Buffy gave him a side look, not sure if he really didn't care how others treated him or was hiding it.

“Come on,” Joyce called. The signs for platforms 9 and 10 hung in front of her. “We have ten minutes left. You'll need to hurry if you want a good compartment.” 

They all came to a halt, facing the central one with platform 9 to one side and 10 to the other. Buffy stepped to the left, craning her neck to look for the Hogwarts Express. There was a train pulling out of platform 10, but it didn't look distinctive. Lovell and Peregrine had told her the Hogwarts train was bright red, and she couldn't miss it. She took a step right and saw the other platform was empty.

“Where's the train?” she asked. “Have we missed it?” If her Mom and Lovell hadn't been there she would have gone into a panic.

“Its through there,” Joyce replied, pointing at the dividing barrier. “There's normally a queue here. I bet you are the last ones to go through.” She bit her lip as another worrying thought occurred to her. “I hope the station clock isn't wrong.” 

“It won't be,” said Lovell. “I'm often this late.” Backing his cart slightly, he lined it up with a certain section of the wall. He shot Buffy a shy grin. “Watch me, you'll like this.”

Lovell blew a stray curl of hair away from his eyes, rubbed his hands, and then taking hold of his cart's handle shouted, “See you in the Christmas holidays, Aunt Joyce!” as he ran full-tilt at the wall. 

Buffy watched anxiously. Not sure if this was a Wizarding thing or if today was the day her cousin had gone completely insane and she'd witness a nasty accident. Just as she expected him to hit the wall with a loud crash, Lovell vanished.

“He's run through the wall!” she squealed. Grabbing hold of her mother's sleeve in excitement she repeated, “Mom! Lovell ran through a wall!” When her Mom didn't answer, Buffy looked up to see a shadow of sadness on her mother's face.

“What's wrong? Don't you feel well? I knew you shouldn't have left the hospital. You shouldn't have discharged yourself. Shall I take you back to St Mungo's?”

Choked with emotion and unable to speak, Joyce shook her head. “It's not that.” She put her arm around Buffy's waist and pulled her to her in a hug. “I remember coming here with my parents and Peregrine. All those times watching the train pulling away and wondering why I didn't have magic...”

“I'm sorry,” Buffy said, trying to convey how sorry she was. This world was just opening up for her, but her Mom had never fit in. No wonder coming here brought back bad memories. 

“It isn't your fault, honey. Will you think I'm a bad Mom if I don't go onto the platform with you?” To Buffy's horror, tears sparkled in her Mom's eyes. “I don't want everyone to see me crying as my daughter leaves on that train.”

'That train.' Those two words seemed to hang in the air between them.

“You didn't want me to be a witch, did you?” Buffy asked, finally realizing how deeply her mother felt about this. 

“No! It's not -,” Joyce's voice broke off. She sniffed and brushed away a tear. “I can't explain it now, but it would have been simpler if you'd been a Muggle-.

“Like Dad,” Buffy said flatly, remembering Hank Summers' letter. In the letter, he'd accused Joyce had been dishonest from the start of their marriage. Had he found out about magic? Is that why their marriage failed? Because Joyce hadn't been truthful about who, or what, she was?

“No!” exclaimed Joyce. “Not like your Dad at all.” |She continued in a softer voice, “The magical world will seem exciting to you, but there's a bad side to it. One that's full of bigotry, hate, and danger. As a Muggle you'd have been safe from those who might try to use or harm you.”

'Safe?' The word held Buffy's attention. Her dreams told her that as a Slayer she was far from safe. If her Mom thought the Wizarding world was her daughter's biggest threat, she didn't know her daughter was a Slayer. 

Joyce brushed a tear away and laughed. “Look at me. Crying because my daughter is going off to boarding school. I want you to go and experience what I never did. Run at the barrier and, whatever you do, don't think about crashing into it. They say that's very important.”

“Are you sure you're gonna be okay?” Buffy asked. The clock above the platform showed that it was almost five minutes to eleven. If she was going to catch this train, she couldn't put off leaving any longer. 

“I'll be fine. Promise me, you'll study hard and not be distracted by boys and sex.”

Buffy's head spun so fast that her ponytail hit her face.“What?! Mom!”

Joyce smiled. “I've heard stories about Hogwarts. Oh, and don't go off with strangers.”

Buffy rolled her eyes. “As if!” 

After a last hug, Buffy took hold of the cart once more and carefully aligned it to the section of wall Lovell had disappeared through.

Then, her face set with grim determination, Buffy set off at a sprint. The barrier came closer and closer. The cart's wheel spun out of line. With a fast yank of Slayer strength, Buffy set it back on course and forced it at the wall. Her Slaydar shrieked in warning as she hit the magical wards, then, for a terrifying moment, there nothing but darkness and then it was light once more.

And she was still running.

Her school trunk bounced up on down as the trolley gained momentum; Buffy being forced to run faster to keep up with it. Ahead, resplendent in scarlet livery, the Hogwarts Express stood at the crowded platform. Smoke from its funnels drifted along the platform. Buffy ran towards it, past a group of second-year pupils, past a small wizard guard, and on towards a group of parents. 

There was something wrong with the cart. It pulled her on, racing like a horse with its bit between its teeth. Too scared to use Slayer strength in front of everyone, Buffy desperately held onto the handle, trying to dig her heels in and hope that it would be enough to slow it. It wasn't working.

“I can't stop! Get out the way!” she yelled at the last minute. 

Parents scattered, kids gaped and then flung themselves aside as she charged through their group. The cart tugged to the left, veering dangerously close to the edge of the platform and Buffy, remembering Lovell saying that he'd almost fallen onto the lines, let out a scream. She was going to fall head first onto the tracks. Two wheels of the cart were over the edge, her feet skidded on the painted edge of the concrete. No longer caring that people might see and wonder, more afraid of crashing down onto the lines, Buffy brought her Slayer strength into play. 

“You're not...beating... me,” she panted out, forcing the cart right and bringing all four wheels back onto the platform. 

And then others were helping her. Burly boys surrounded the cart and slowing it, first to a sedate roll and finally a stop. Uncurling her fingers from the handle, Buffy stood with legs trembling from the shock. It was only a damn British Rail luggage cart, but it had shaken her more than fighting a pack of master vampires.

“Are you hurt?” a boy asked. 

Buffy looked into the azure eyes of a tanned Apollo. A total hottie that she'd made a fool of herself in front of. She put her hand to her face, hiding her embarrassment.

“Umm, I'm totally fine thanks, but I think this cart is jinxed.”

When she'd hoped to make an impression on the other students on her first day this was not what she'd been thinking of. 

…..

Onboard the train, Tom Riddle was in one of the first carriages when he heard the scream. Like everyone else, he tensed and fell silent. That was not the excited squeal of a child greeting friends or the scream of frustration and anger of a younger child stopped from boarding the train. It was a scream of terror.

“What's that? What's happening out there?” asked Horace Slughorn, looking around his audience of favourite pupils for an answer.

Tom thought the question exceptionally foolish. For the past twenty minutes, they'd been forced to listen to Sluggy whittle on about the hampers sent to him by past pupils. How would any of them know what was happening outside?

“Sir, shall I go and see?” Tom asked with an obliging smile. He was eager to escape the fat professor and curious to see what was happening. 

“That's a good boy, Tom,” Slughorn beamed, rocking back on his heels and showing off his large belly. “I know I can rely on you to acquire the right information.”

Outside the compartment, the corridor was so densely packed with chattering students that he could hardly move. Spotting a fellow fifth former leaning from a door window, Tom pushed his way towards her.

“Do you know who screamed?” he asked. “Sluggy sent me to find out.”

Lucretia Black stepped to the side allowing him to take her place at the door. “I think it's the jinxed trolley,” she replied. “The one that turns up every few years and causes trouble. The blonde girl over there shot from the barrier and it tried throwing her off the platform. A group of boys stopped it in time.”

“What a shame,” replied Tom, who didn't care either way but knew to make the right noises.

He knew about the jinxed trolley. Some believed that its wheel had been hexed by mischievous students to bait Muggles, others believed a vengeful dark wizard had placed a dark curse on it many years ago. No one knew the truth, but every so often a trolley would show up with a Hogwarts first-year and either would dump their trunk onto the line or 'accidentally' run someone over. 

Tom leaned out of the window and spotted the crowd huddled around the jinxed trolley and the first year. With a soft snort of disgust, Tom took in the boys who'd gone to the girl's rescue. Apart from the desire to look a hero in front of others, he saw no reason why they would concern themselves with a first-year. Scanning their faces, he began to make mental notes of identity and paying particular note of strong emotions. You could learn a lot from observing fellow students. 

There was the vile Gryffindor, Lancelot Lockhart, standing around hoping that people would mistake him for a hero, next to him there was an unknown older boy. Tom took an instant dislike to him. He had one of those handsome and honest faces that needed hexing – the sort who always ended up in Gryffindor. Speaking of Gryffindors, Bernard Weasley the Gryffindor Quidditch captain, his face redder than his hair, was one of those there and standing beside him was... 

Tom raised an eyebrow in surprise. Abraxus Malfoy? Why would Malfoy put himself out by helping a first-year? Was she from a Pureblood family? And then Tom did another double-take, Marcus Lestrange was there too. Who was this young Pureblood witch who'd garnered so much attention? The crowd moving around the group obscured them and Weasley's gangly body blocked his view of the girl. 

“Move, Weasley, move,” Tom hissed, his eyes burning into the back of Weasley's head as his magic stirred.

Weasley shuffled an inch or two to the side and Tom caught a glimpse of the girl's hunched shoulder and a lock of blonde hair. It wouldn't surprise him if the spoilt first-year was in tears. He sneered. A delicate flower, sheltered by devoted parents, who'd never known any real hardship in her short life. How he despised the Pureblood girls who were like that. 

The engine whistled, signalling that it was time to board and the boys stepped away from the trolley and the girl. At the same time, she raised her head from her hands and looked over at the engine. 

No!

Buffy Summers.. on the platform...with a school trunk.

His heart beat wildly in his chest, blood whooshed through his ears and he couldn't move. Students pushed past as they made their way back to travelling companions. A seventh-year boy came to the carriage door and blocked the view of the platform. Tom stepped out of his way. Once he'd gone, Tom moved back to the door, his eyes seeking Buffy. She was further down the platform now and a curly-haired, Ravenclaw boy walked alongside her. Lockhart and the boy with the face that needed hexing followed, calling to her and pushing the jinxed trolley between them. She became lost from sight when crowds of parents moved up to the train to say their last goodbyes to their children.

Tom was vaguely aware of Lucretia Black casting a puzzled look at him as she moved to the door, gently pushing him aside as she waved to her parents. On the platform, the guard blew his whistle, signalling for the train to move out and the carriage lurched as the train rolled forward. Normally, Tom would have returned to his compartment and travelling companions but he remained leaning against the side of the carriage, deep in thought. 

Buffy Summers was a witch. Well, that explained why he'd felt so at ease in her company. His magic had recognised a fellow magic user even if he hadn't known the reason why he'd been drawn to her. It came as a relief, he'd been wondering if he'd developed an unfortunate liking for Muggles. His worry now was that she'd turn out to be a Mudblood...

Then he scowled. At the orphanage, Buffy had asked several times to see his textbooks and when he'd refused to let her near them, she'd smiled – knowingly. She must have known that he was a Wizard! Sparks of annoyance flared inside him. Had she been laughing at him? That teasing letter she'd left beneath his pillow saying she would turn up when least expected. He'd thought she intended to return to the orphanage and been disappointed that she hadn't. All along she had known that she'd see him at Hogwarts. Why hadn't she told him? His blood ran cold and then red hot. Did she look down at him, for being an orphanage boy?

Anger and magic rose inside him in equal measures, hissing and spitting like green wood on a fire.

'Orphanage boy, orphanage boy, orphanage boy,' the train seemed to chant as it's wheels rattled on the tracks.

'Orphanage boy.' The insult Muggle children had first levelled at him when he'd appeared in their midst wearing Cole's grey uniform. They'd tried to bully him, to belittle him, to force him to become less than them because he had less than them. He'd put a stop to their bullying in the only way he could – through magic. They'd stopped their taunts after the first few accidents and left him alone.

'Orphanage boy, orphanage boy, orphanage boy,' chanted the train.

When he'd arrived at Hogwarts, he'd thought it was a chance to escape his background and be on equal footing with the rest of the students. Instead, he'd found that his housemates were Purebloods who despised those without a long pedigree. 

'Orphanage boy, orphanage boy, orphanage boy.' 

Bullying was rife in Slytherin, and Tom hadn't escaped unscathed those first few terms. Only with patience, a display of parseltongue, and true cunning had he turned the tables on those who'd bullied him. Now, they acknowledged him as the Heir of Salazar Slytherin and honoured the presence of a true serpent in their midst. He'd never revealed the squalid conditions of Cole's or mentioned what he faced on his return, and that's how he wanted it to stay. 

Buffy knew his background. She'd witnessed the poverty, the degradation, his Muggle place of birth, and she'd even seen photos of his parents. She'd known he was a wizard and laughed behind his back. If she opened her mouth and told others where he'd come from...

'Orphanage boy, orphanage boy, orphanage boy,' the train chanted as its wheels rattled along the tracks.

“The prefects are meeting in the first compartment,” said Lucretia, breaking into his thoughts. “Are you coming with me?” 

Tom looked up at her from under his lashes, surprised his fellow prefect had remained behind. Had she been watching him? His eyes darkened, and the girl looked uneasy at his scrutiny. Tom knew the Black family were hoarders of secrets and waited until the time was right before using them against their enemies. Lucretia Black, he'd remember her and her inappropriate interest in his affairs. The Black family were powerful and influential, it wouldn't be wise to move against her openly, but should she step out of line... 

“Please make my excuses,” he said, the polite mask slipping over his face once more. “I need to speak to Professor Slughorn first. I shall join you in the prefect compartment shortly.” 

…........

A/N;

thank you to all those who take the time to comment on this!


	31. Journey To Scotland

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Buffy learns about Von Kendrick and Tom Riddle...

As the Hogwarts Express pulled out the station, Lovell led Buffy along the train's corridor with her two rescuers behind them. They walked past several compartments filled with rowdy first and second-years until they came to an empty one that had Lovell's trunk inside it. After the boys placed Buffy's trunk next to Lovell's, Buffy thanked them.

“Do you mind if I travel in here with you?” asked the suntanned boy Buffy had mentally named Apollo. “I'm a transfer student. I came early, found an empty compartment, and then a bunch of shrieking girls invaded it.”

“Sure,” Buffy quickly agreed. “I'm new here too.” She looked over at Lovell for confirmation. “Is that okay? Are you expecting anyone?

Lovell looked uncomfortable; ducking his head, he began searching his pockets for his toad and muttered, “Um, no.”

“Excellent!” Apollo gave them both a wide and enthusiastic smile, showing a set of sparkling white teeth. “I'll be back shortly.” He slid the door shut behind him and shot off up the corridor.

That left Lovell, Buffy and the other boy who'd introduced himself as Lancelot Lockhart. Buffy chose a seat by the window whilst Lovell removed his toad and a magazine from his coat pockets. After putting them onto the seat across from Buffy, he folded the coat and threw it onto the luggage rack that ran above the seats.

With a cough to gain attention, Lockhart placed a hand over his heart and proclaimed, “Parting is such sweet sorrow. However, my travelling companions will be heartbroken should I not return to them.” 

With those words, he bowed low with a dramatic flourish. “Fare thee well, O' fairest maiden.” Backing to the door he continued, “T'was a pleasure to be your knight errant and rescue you from the foul clutches of yonder trolley. I bid you all a fond... farewell!”

He spun around, slammed his face into the glass of the closed door and the entire panel shuddered under the impact. 

“Oh! Are you okay?” Buffy asked. 

Lockhart swung around, smiled insanely, opened the door, and left. Buffy and Lovell watching until he disappeared from view down the corridor.

“That boy is totally weird,” said Buffy. She took the spectrespecs out of her pocket, put them on and began examining the compartment. It was something she did routinely these days, in case something demony or plain magical lingered in the area.

“Lancelot Lockhart,” Lovell said, opening up Moths and Chrysalids Monthly magazine. “He thinks he is living up to the name.”

“Mmm.” Buffy opened her trunk and, avoiding disturbing Spikey's box, reached for Aunt Bendy's book. “In other words,” she went on, “Lancelot lives in Fantasy-ville.” 

Lovell grinned and turned a page in his magazine. “Fantasy-ville to you, Camelot to your Sir Lancelot.”

“He is not my Sir -”

There was a loud bumping in the corridor, and Buffy whipped the spectrespecs from her face as Apollo appeared hauling his trunk. Lovell went to help him, and after they'd brought in his school trunk, they sat down - all three of them looking at each other awkwardly. Lovell because he became shy around strangers, the new boy because he couldn't think of anything to say, and Buffy because she thought she could hear bumping coming from inside her trunk.

“I'm Caradoc Dearborn,” Caradoc said when he realised he'd forgotten to introduce himself. “I'm transferring. I was studying at Durmstrang, but my family wanted me to transfer to Hogwarts. They both work for the International Division of Aurors and worry in case I'm a target. Grindelwald attended Durmstrang, you see, and despite the security they don't think it's safe.” 

Lovell looked intrigued and excited. “International Division of Aurors? Are they part of the SOS?” For Buffy's benefit, he added, “That is the Wizarding Statute of Secrecy Task Force. They work for the International Confederation of Wizards and their job is to contain outbreaks of magic that Muggles will notice. The British Ministry has its own division, but the SOS is the international one.”

“The Inter-Aurors are part of SOS,” admitted Caradoc. “A lot of their missions are hush-hush.”

Lovell gazed at him in awe.

“Does Grindelwald have supporters in Durmstrang?” Buffy asked. She felt a little lost. For the past four weeks she'd been buried in her schoolbooks or frantically learning magic with Dumbledore. The only time she'd ventured out was on her early morning runs or visiting her Mom in St Mungos. She'd had no time to catch up on Grindelwald or the Muggle war. 

“Durmstrang has many students from the old European Wizarding families,” Caradoc replied. His mouth twisted with revulsion. “Some are Pureblood elitists and cause trouble. I am sure you know the sort.”

Across from him, Lovell nodded in silent agreement.

Caradoc's eyes drifted to Buffy. “You're American. Were you at Ilvermorny? Why did you transfer? Were your family worried about your security as well? I know Grindelwald has a strong following over there.”

“Uh, no. I didn't know anything about magic until a few weeks ago. I'm a late-developer. My magic sort of sprung to life and surprised everyone, including me. Before that, I was a...” Buffy frowned and turned to Lovell. “What do you call someone without magic whose parents are a Squib and a Muggle?”

Lovell bit his lip, and covering his face with his magazine, mumbled, “That would be a Squiggle.”

Buffy's eyes narrowed. “A Squiggle? Are you sure about that?” 

She couldn't see her cousin's face, but she spotted his shoulders shaking and heard the low snicker from behind the paper. 

“Lovell!” she squeaked. “You nearly had me telling everyone that I was a Squiggle!”

The magazine dropped away from his face and her cousin dissolved into laughter. Caradoc laughed as well.

After giving Lovell a full-on glare, Buffy relented and joined in. “Uh, a Squiggle. I admit, you're totally on point with the name bestow-age. What about you Caradoc? Are all your family magical?”

He nodded. “Those who are alive. Mum's a Muggleborn and Dad's a Pureblood. They met at Hogwarts, joined the Ministry, and then transferred to the Inter-Aurors when Grindelwald began causing trouble. That's odd your magic flared so late, Buffy. According to Mum and Dad, magic happened around me from being in the cradle. What made your magic flare to life? Do you know?”

“Buffy and Aunt Joyce were caught up in an attack made by one of Grindelwald's supporters,” Lovell answered for her, looking more comfortable in Caradoc's company now the joke had eased the tension. “He attacked them both and then blew up the building.”

“I woke up to find myself buried alive and with no idea of who I was. I had to dig my way out of the rubble, like a vampire escaping her grave,” added Buffy. “Although I don't have an allergic reaction to sunlight or a compulsion to suck blood.” 

Then wished she'd not mentioned vampires as Lovell became all tense again. She quickly moved on, “After that Dumbledore invited me to Hogwarts and I met Lovell and my Uncle Peregrine.” 

“Buffy is my cousin,” explained Lovell. “They'd only been in England a couple of days when Von Kendrick attacked.”

“Von Kendrick?! I've heard of him.” Caradoc's face was grim. “The man is a crazy Pureblood elitist. A few months ago he broke into a Muggle institute in Austria and killed most of the students and teachers there. He abducted several and they have never been found.” He lowered his voice, “The Inter-Aurors believe he's targetting the Muggleborn and their Muggle relatives to conduct experiments on. Word is, he is searching for the reason why Muggles sometimes produce a child with magic. I didn't want to leave Durmstrang, but Mum's a Muggleborn and she was worried about me staying there. Who knows who his next victim will be and what kind of experiments he is performing on them?”

“Do you think he wanted Buffy to experiment on? With her Mum being a Squib?” Lovell asked. His magazine lay forgotten about, the older boy had his full attention.

Caradoc gave a little shrug. “Perhaps... I am sorry, I don't know more,” he replied. “The only reason I found out about Von Kendrick experimenting on people is because I overheard a conversation. I arrived home early and my parents were discussing it. They didn't know I was in the house.”

Buffy let out a breath she hadn't realised that she'd been holding. Leaning back in her seat, aware of boys looking over at her, she maintained a calm facade even though her mind was racing. Moody had told her that Von Kendrick had spoken to her shortly before the attack. What had he said? She couldn't remember. Some nights, she dreamed of meeting him. There was confusion, swirling lights, the taste of fear, the sensation of falling, and then... nothing. She'd wake, tangled up in the bedclothes, dripping in sweat, and see Spikey hovering over her with large, worried eyes. 

Not wanting the boys to think she was tongue-tied with terror, Buffy replied, “Alastor Moody never said anything about Von Kendrick experimenting on people.” 

“Moody might not know. The Minister for International Magical Law told us that Von Kendrick was working alone,” Lovell reminded her. He noticed his toad trying to slip away and grabbed it before it could hop off the seat. “Minster Lestrange said the attack lacked Grindelwald's finesse and Moody thought it odd Lestrange came in person to interview you and your Mum. Remember, Buffy?”

She nodded. Buffy hadn't forgotten the meeting with Lestrange and the more she turned this new information over in her head, the more uneasy she became. Lovell was right, Moody might not know any of this. Joyce was a Squib and Buffy the daughter of a Squib. Did Lestrange think Von Kendrick had tried to abduct them that day because of what they were? Had the presence of two British Aurors foiled his plans? Would he come back, and try again?

“How do I warn Mom?” Buffy looked to Lovell for help. She didn't know the best way to contact her. “I need to tell her about this.” 

“Hogwarts have owls that you can borrow. Write a note now and we'll slip away to the owlery during the feast.” 

…

At around half-past twelve, there was a lot of rattling in the corridor, their compartment door slid open, and a young witch wearing a floral apron asked, “Any one want anything off the trolley?”

The Honeyduke's trolley-witch sold a variety of pasties, chocolates, and candy. Buffy followed the boy's lead and bought pumpkin pasties, cauldron cakes, and chocolate frogs for the journey. She drew the line at Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans when Lovell mentioned they really did come in every flavour, like liver, tripe, and even booger flavoured. Caradoc was not deterred; he purchased several packs saying he'd eaten them before and had enjoyed them. Buffy wasn't sure if she should admire him for being brave or question his tastes.

After they'd eaten the pasties, cakes, and chocolate frogs (complete with a famous witch and wizard card in each, that she gave to Lovell because she wasn't five, and didn't feel the need to collect anything other than stylish outfits), Buffy began to grow restless. From the din outside in the corridor, others felt the same as her. Younger students ran past, shouting to friends, hexing each other and squealing. Occasionally, they'd hear a prefect's voice telling the miscreants to return to their compartments.

Buffy sat with her back to the window, watching the corridor in case Tom walked past as he carried out his prefect duties. 

“I'm going to look for Tom,” Buffy said impatiently, knowing she couldn't wait a moment longer. She had to find Tom and watch his face when he saw her and she shouted,”Surprise!” 

“Is that wise?” Lovell asked without looking up. He turned a page in his book, The Giant Book Of Moths. “If Riddle is a prefect, he'll be busy dealing with...” he pointed at the third-year boys outside their compartment, they were fooling around casting bat bogie hexes at each other and laughing hilariously when they were hit. “...rowdy students on the train. It might be better to wait.”

Caradoc's eyes darted from Lovell to Buffy. “Is this Tom Riddle a good friend of yours?”

“No!” said Lovell.

“Yes!” said Buffy.

“Buffy met him in London,” explained Lovell. “Tom Riddle is a Slytherin. He is rather...”

“What?” Buffy folded her arms and glowered at him, feeling defensive. She'd already asked Lovell about Tom and, from the way he'd changed the subject, she guessed her cousin didn't like him. “Go on, Tom is rather what?” she pressed when Lovell looked rattled. “Sarcastic? Rude? Full of himself? Yeah, I agree, but he's still my friend.”

To her surprise, Lovell stared at her in amazement.

Putting his book down, he replied, “Is he? I didn't know that, but I don't know him well. The only class I've shared with him is History of Magic and he's sat on the opposite side of the room to me. I know Riddle has a good work ethic and I've no doubt he'll take his prefect duties seriously. He's well liked by the tutors,” he paused, and colour flooded his cheeks, “ and seems to be popular with girls.”

There was a thick silence in the compartment. Lovell suddenly finding a herd of cows in a field fascinating while Buffy took out her spectrespecs and spun them in her hand absent mindedly. Out the corner of her eye, she saw Caradoc's eyes drop to the specs and then back up to her face. 

“I don't like Tom in that way,” she replied after a moment. “We're only friends.” 

Even as she spoke, she wondered if it was true. She'd thought of Tom almost every day since she'd left the orphanage. Hadn't she put in extra hours of studying so that she wouldn't look stupid when she turned up in his classes? 

It didn't surprise Buffy that Tom was popular, he was good looking, self-assured and intelligent. Other girls were bound to be interested... She cringed, knowing how the other students might see her. She'd be the needy new girl, mooning hopelessly over the popular boy who'd been nice to her a couple of times out of school. Her cheeks flushed, and she put the spectrespecs on to hide the unexpected tears that had sprung to her eyes. She didn't have many friends here, and it felt as if she'd lost one.

“I'll find him later, when he's not so busy,” she mumbled. Or, maybe, she'd let him make the first move as she didn't want to appear desperate. 

Lovell's eyes slid from the cows to her. When she gave him a watery smile, he returned it with a tight smile of his own.

Caradoc turned the conversation to schoolwork and the core subjects they had to study and the electives. After a while, Buffy closed her eyes and dozed off. It was much darker when she woke, the landscape was wilder and more rugged, and the few farms and houses they passed had lights at the windows.

“What house are you in?” she heard Caradoc asking Lovell quietly. “I hear Hogwarts have a Sorting Hat that knows all your thoughts, and it places you into a House according to your character and qualities.”

Buffy shuddered. Putting a mind-reading hat onto her head was not something she was looking forward to. She'd been in a panic at first when Lovell told her about it, worried in case it knew she was a vampire killer. Her cousin assured her that its only purpose was to place children into the correct Houses and had no interest in anything else. Buffy wasn't so sure. 

“I'm a Ravenclaw,” Lovell replied with a hint of pride. “That's the best House to be in.”

Buffy knew that the Hogwarts students took pride in their Houses. Lovell was proud of being a Ravenclaw, Marcus Lestrange was proud of being Slytherin. Personally, she thought that sorting kids in Houses and encouraging rivalry between them was a form of control. Reward good behaviour with points for your House and lose points when you were bad – to the annoyance of your housemates. She wasn't so stupid not to see the system for what it really was. 

“The Lovegoods are almost always Ravenclaws,” Lovell continued, “although we have had a couple of Hufflepuffs and a Gryffindor in the past.”

Dumbledore had already explained to her what each founder looked for when choosing a student. The Slytherins were almost always Purebloods and very ambitious, which Buffy wasn't. Hufflepuffs were hard-working and friendly. Buffy wasn't sure if you could class a Slayer as 'friendly', it seemed the wrong word to use for someone who killed demons and lied to keep their existence a secret. As for Ravenclaw, the students from that house tended to be academically gifted. Despite Buffy knowing that she could be classed more as 'struggling' than gifted, Ravenclaw was where she wanted to be. 

“What House would you like to be in?” Lovell asked Caradoc.

“Gryffindor,” Caradoc replied, “The House both my parents were in.”

Internally, Buffy grimaced. Gryffindors were supposed to be brave, adventurous, and determined, and Buffy had already decided that it wasn't for her. The main problem was Dumbledore. Although she'd always be grateful for his tutoring this summer, sometimes during their lessons she'd look up to catch him watching her. It was almost as if he knew she was hiding something and it was only a matter of time before he caught her in the act. 

If the hat put in Gryffindor, sneaking out would be more difficult with a suspicious and hovering Dumbledore. Not to mention, a bunch of adventure-hungry Gryffindor kids trailing after her whenever she sneaked out of Gryffindor Tower to patrol for creepies. She hadn't told Lovell yet, but she'd already made her mind up that she was going to start patrolling. And if she came across vampires killing innocents, she wasn't the type to stand by and watch. 

...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all those who left a review. These are always greatly appreciated. Hoping to get to the Sorting Hat next chapter!


	32. Buffy and the Creatures from the Black Lagoon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Buffy travels to Hogwarts by boat, sort of.

Buffy Meets the Creatures from the Black Lagoon  
Buffy and The Creatures From The Black Lagoon.

The lamps had been lit inside the Hogwarts Express for several hours when a voice echoed around the train. “We will be reaching Hogsmeade station in five minutes time. Please leave your luggage on the train, it will be taken to Hogwarts separately.”

Lovell immediately stood up and reached above his head into the luggage rack.

“They want me to leave my trunk behind!” squeaked Buffy sitting very still and shooting her cousin's back a panicked look.

Caradoc, in the process of rising from his seat, paused and cast her a curious glance.

“Hmm?” Lovell replied, more interested in taking his coat from the luggage rack and gathering his belongings than listening to what she was saying.

“Lovell,” Buffy spoke slowly and put as much meaning as she could into the relevant words, “My TRUNK is gonna be left BEHIND.”

It wasn't as if she could mention the boggart while Caradoc was in the compartment. What if Spikey realised she'd gone and sprung out when others came to move her trunk? Boggarts were territorial; he might become stressed and go into scare mode. If only she could get Caradoc out of here, she could speak to Spikey and explain.

Lovell turned, with his coat neatly folded over his arm. “I don't see why you need your ... Ah!” The penny dropped, and Lovell gazed over at Buffy's trunk with a creased brow.

Caradoc, who'd gone across to the trunks and was in the middle of taking school robes out of his, frowned at Buffy's trunk.

Buffy widened her eyes at Lovell and nodded towards Caradoc. The boy had two Aurors as parents and, from the conversation they'd shared, he'd shown himself to be far from stupid - he knew something was going on. Thankfully for Buffy, Lovell had an idea.

After exchanging his coat for school robes, Lovell closed his trunk's lid and announced in a matter-of-fact way, “Caradoc, Buffy needs to change her blouse. She's dribbled chocolate down the front and she can't change with us in here.”

Caradoc's eyes dropped to Buffy's chest as she instinctively put a hand over an imaginary stain.

“Oops, clumsy me,” she agreed, turning on the dizzy blonde persona with ease. “I promise I won't take long.”

As soon as the door closed behind them, Buffy pulled down the blinds in the compartment and opened her trunk. Taking out Spikey's travelling box, she held it up to her face and whispered, “Spikey, I'm almost at Hogwarts. I need to go soon and someone will come in and take the trunk up to my dormitory. I'll check up on you as soon as I can. Don't spring out and scare anyone. Okay?”

The boggart scratched on the side of the box, and Buffy took that as a yes. She'd known from the start that smuggling Spikey into Hogwarts like this was a risk but felt she had no choice. She couldn't leave him behind, he'd only follow her and cause more trouble along the way. At least this way, he stayed inside her trunk. Once there, all she had to do was make sure no one saw them interacting. Lovell had told her Professor Merrythought taught boggart banishing spells in DADA classes, and she often brought in boggarts for her students to observe and practise on. Buffy hoped that if someone did see Spikey in the castle, they would assume he was a boggart brought in for classes and not trace him back to her.

….

As the Hogwarts Express pulled into the quaint, lantern-lit Hogsmeade Station. Buffy left the compartment and made her way down the corridor to where Lovell and Caradoc waited for her a short distance from the carriage door.

“Professor Kettleburn will call the first years before us,” Lovell said. “There's no rush.” He pushed Knuts further down into his pocket. The toad didn't want to keep still, he kept crawling to the top of Lovell's pocket and trying to leap out onto the floor.

“FIRST YEARS!” bellowed a loud voice from the platform. “FIRST YEARS! CARADOC DEARBORN, AND BUFFY LOVEGOOD-SUMMERS!”

Buffy shot a startled look at Lovell. “I thought there was no rush?”

“Oh, I forgot,” Lovell replied sheepishly. “New students travel separately to the rest of us. You'd better go. Kettleburn doesn't like to be kept waiting.”

It was one of the prefects' duties to disembark first and hold the doors open for new students. At their nearest door, a sandy-haired, fifth-former girl wearing Gryffindor colours stepped out and held open the door of their carriage. Caradoc climbed out next and surprised Buffy by holding out his hand for Buffy to take. For a second, she was taken aback but then slipped her hand into his.

“Thanks,” she flashed him a broad smile and jumped down.

Once on the platform, both she and Caradoc looked across to where the teacher stood, holding up a lantern and continually calling for the first years. Buffy never once looked behind her, if she had she'd have recognised one of the prefects as Tom Riddle and seen the speculative way he watched her.

Instead, her focus was on the man who'd teach her about Care of Magical Creatures. Silvanus Kettleburn was a middle-aged wizard with fair thinning hair, a black eyepatch over one eye, and a badly scarred face. He didn't wear wizarding robes, he wore a knee-length dragon-hide coat and long serviceable boots.

“Oi, you tall uns at the back!” He pointed over the heads of the first years to where Buffy and Caradoc were standing. “Ger over ere! I want you two at the front!”

“Yes, Sir,” Caradoc called back politely.

Buffy didn't reply, with a little smirk at being described as tall, she simply followed Caradoc as he pushed a path through the first years.

“Now then!” Kettleburn looked around him, holding the lantern higher and scanning their faces. “That's everyone I take it? Right then, everyone follow me! This way to the boats!”

They followed him from the station and out onto the road. There a long row of carriages waited, each one harnessed to a winged, skeletal creature. Buffy looked at the beasts curiously, and the strange, horse-like creatures turned their coal-black heads as she passed.

“Whoa! Scary,” said a boy's voice from behind her. Buffy glanced over her shoulder to see an overweight kid giving the Thestrals a wide berth.

“Do you mean the carriages, Crabbe?” Rigel Black scoffed. “What's so scary about them?”

“No, not the carriages!” Crabbe replied. “The winged things that are harnessed in front of them!”

“I don't see anything,” retorted Rigel Black. “Everyone knows the Hogwarts carriages are self-propelled. You should ask your mother to take you for an eye test.”

“But they're right there!” insisted Crabbe looking from the nearest Thestral to Rigel. “There's monsters pulling the carriages!

“I don't see anything,” a girl behind them called out.

“I don't see anything either.” More voices chimed, confirming they weren't able to see the creatures either.

“Crabbe's gone mental,” Rigel sneered. “He's seeing things that aren't there.” He gave the fat boy a push and sent him staggering towards one of the waiting Thestrals. “ Maybe he wants his Mummy? Or maybe he's a mental case and needs locking up in St Mungo's? Which is it Crabbe?”

Buffy had had enough of the privileged boy's bullying, she spun around, her black robe whirling around her. “He isn't mental. I can see them as well. They're called Thestrals and only those who have witnessed death can see them.”

Rigel glowered at Buffy for daring to correct him. In scathing tones, he replied, “There's no such thing, you're making it up!”

Kettleburn halted and swung his lantern, lighting Rigel's face. “Well Black, she's right an' yer wrong! The creatures that pull the Hogwarts carriages are indeed called Thestrals and yer can't see them as you've not seen anyone die!” He turned to Buffy and asked more gently, if a bit gruffly, “You've seen someone die, haven't you?”

For a moment, Buffy's mind went blank. Who had she seen die? The faces of the vampires she'd staked flashed in her mind. “Er, yeah.”

“See,” grunted Kettleburn. “She's seen someone die. That accounts for it.”

Rigel tried to appear disinterested and failed as he kept glancing at the empty spaces in front of the carriages.

Kettleburn turned and continued talking as he walked. “You'll learn about Thestrals in Care of Magical Creatures which is what I teach. And I'll not take messin' around in my class!” He swung around fast and wagged a finger at Rigel who'd been sticking out his tongue at the man's back. “And we don't take a poor attitude from our pupils! You'll treat the teachers with respect or get points taken and a detention!”

They marched on, past the last of the waiting carriages to where the fir trees thinned, and the road dropped away. Here they followed a stone path for a short distance until they rounded a rocky outcrop and found themselves on a stony beach bordering a great lake. A string of lanterns was hung along a wooden dock and, in the water, a number of small boats bobbed up and down.

“No more than four to a boat,” Kettleburn barked as he marched along the line of first years. “Yer don't need to row, they're charmed to float across the lake to Hogwarts. All yer got to do is sit back, an' enjoy the ride.” He glared at Rigel, who was trying to push Crabbe off the dock and into the lake. “An' no messin' about!”

Caradoc nudged Buffy. “Come on, we'll take the one over there.”

As they walked over to the small boat, Kettleburn yelled, “Oi! Dearborn and Summers! You two in separate boats, you're bigger than the rest!”

Caradoc was directed to a boat holding two girls and a boy whilst Buffy found she'd drawn the short straw. Her boat contained the annoying Rigel Black, a sharp-faced boy, and the plump Crabbe. She quickly took a seat in the stern, letting Black and the small boy take the central seat whilst Crabbe sat in the prow.

The small flotilla set off. The small craft magically propelled over the dark water of the lake, heading for the cliff opposite. There Hogwarts lay, every window lit and glowing in the darkness. For a while they were all quiet, overawed by their surroundings and the magnificent castle that was their destination. As time passed, however, the boys became restless and began to talk.

“Do you think there are monsters down there?” Rigel leaned over the edge of the boat, trailing his hand in the cold water.

“There's a giant Squid,” Buffy replied, her eyes on the castle glowing in the distance. “And Merpeople and the horned water demons.” She'd dipped into the book 'Hogwarts, A History' the previous night, skim reading the chapter on its location in case it mentioned the existence of a Hellmouth in the area.

“There are no such things as demons!” snapped Rigel. “What are you?” he sneered. “A Muggleborn? You're lying because you think you can scare us.”

Before Buffy could answer, the small, sharp-faced boy sat next to Rigel piped up, “Newt Scamander says Grindylows are water horned demons! I've read it in his book!”

“That's right.” Buffy gave the small boy and encouraging smile. “They are also mentioned in Hogwarts, A History. Aunt Bendy Bones says that Grindylows live in lakes and you can find them hiding under bulrushes, waiting for children to come within range.” Her eyes flicked to the kids watching her. “Then they SPRING OUT,” she made a clawed motion with her hands, “and drag them down into the water and eat their flesh.”

“That's rubbish!” Rigel jumped to his feet and glared down at her. The little boat slowed, dropping behind the others and began to rock in the water. “You're trying to scare us!”

“It isn't rubbish, it's true. Sit down and stop rocking the boat,” Buffy replied. She didn't like the way the water sloshed over the sides or how quickly the rest of the boats disappeared from sight.

“I won't!” Rigel held the central pole and climbed up onto the seat. “You can't stop me!” Then he placed his foot on the side of the boat and began to rock it to and fro. “There's no such thing as demons, only Mudbloods and Muggles believe in them.”

“Sit down!” she told him again. The boy sat next to Rigel had wrapped his arms around the central post, the lantern above swinging wildly with the boat's movement. Over in the prow, Crabbe scrabbled off the seat and knelt on the boat's floor.

“You can't tell me what to do, Mudblood,” laughed Rigel, contemptuously. He let go of the pole and built up a rhythm with his feet. The boat rocked harder and harder and more lake water sloshed over the sides. “I'm a Black. We do whatever we wa-”

His foot skidded on the wet wood. Rigel's arms flailed as he desperately tried regaining his balance. Buffy leapt up and grabbed for him, but she was too late. The boy slipped from beneath her grasp and plunged into the Black Lake with a loud splash.

“HELP!” yelled Crabbe from the prow. “Man overboard! HEELP!”

But the lights on the other boats were too far ahead of them, and they gave no sign they'd heard him.

Buffy dropped to her knees and stared into the dark water below her. “Can anyone see him?”

“No,” Crabbe replied, scanning the waters around them. “Rigel can't swim.”

“Oh crap,” she muttered. Pulling off her robes, hat and shoes, Buffy placed her wand between her teeth and slipped over the boat's side into the inky waters. The water in the Scottish lake was icy cold, it froze her marrow-deep, and her brain stuttered from the shock.

….Buffy was in an underground chamber, large branches of candles flickered all around her, and somewhere out of sight something evil lingered. She walked on, the long prom dress swirling around her legs, her chest pounding with fear as she gripped the crossbow in her hands. She was hunting and determined to kill the creature the vampires called The Master.

“You don't understand your part in this do you?” the Master called out from somewhere out of sight. His voice as smooth and sensuous as a lover's.“You aren't the hunter here, you're the lamb.”

And then he was in front of her and she fell under his thrall. Pulling her against him, the Master slid the jacket from her shoulders, revealing her neck. A tear fell from Buffy's eye as she realised that she'd lost, there was nothing she could do to stop him from biting and killing her...

“Oh, the power,” he groaned after feeding. He threw her away like a piece of garbage, to land face first in the water....

Buffy snorted water through her nose as her head dropped and slammed into the side of the boat. She spluttered, realising that she'd just relived a memory –and not a good one.

“I still can't see him,” Crabbe shouted down to her. He crawled from one side of the boat to the other, searching the water for Rigel. “He must have sunk.”

Taking her wand from her mouth, Buffy cast a Lumos charm. This time when the overpowered light shot out, Buffy thought that it was a good thing. Not only did it light up the surrounding water, but it shone across the lake and would alert others to their position and predicament.

There was still no sign of Rigel. Buffy drew in a series of deep breaths to inflate her lungs, replaced the wand between her teeth, and dived. As she dived, she checked her surroundings, her eyes trying to make sense of the shapes in the darkness beyond the reach of the light. There was no sign of Rigel, Buffy pushed on, swimming deeper and deeper.

Although there was no sign of the boy, there were other things in the water with her. Things that she could sense rather than see. They weren't vampires or anything similar, but they grated on her Slayer senses in the way demons did. Buffy swam on, wary of an ambush as pushing her way through a tangled forest of rippling black weeds that slapped at face and arms as she forced her way through them.

There!

She caught a glimpse of a pale face in the distance. Rigel? Buffy swam towards him, trying to ignore the way her lungs already begged to take a deep breath. She was a Slayer. She could hold her breath longer than most.

Slayers could still drown...

A memory tugged, trying to rise into her mind, and she fought it off. Not now! She couldn't afford to drift off into memories, she had to focus.

As she pushed her way through a dense patch of weeds, fingers wrapped around her ankle and tugged. More fingers grabbed at the back of her blouse – the shock of them almost causing her to draw breath. Buffy twisted in the water, at the same time kicking out hard. Her foot struck the first horned water demon directly on the top of its bony head, and it fell away with a crushed skull. The second she tore at with her hands, ripping at the fleshy arms, her Slayer strength tearing them from the body. It managed to escape, the demon's tentacles pumping furiously as it left its arms behind.

Her lungs were burning now after expending energy, and she was starting to feel light-headed through lack of oxygen. There was no way she could abandon the boy now, Rigel was almost in front of her. Grasping the boy's shoulder with one hand, she tore at the water demons that held him with the other. They bared their fangs at her, their strong hands grabbing for her, fingers tangling in her hair and one brazen demon trying to take a bite at her cheek. She recoiled, then her inner Slaydar took over and she began punching, kicking, and tearing at any Grindylow within range.

With a final brutal kick, the last demon was thrust away. The water around her swirled with their dead forms; some without arms or tentacles, others headless, and there were even more demons shredded so badly that Buffy wasn't able to recognise what they'd been. Not that she cared. She'd achieved her objective and that was to set Rigel free. With a powerful kick with her legs, she struck out for the surface, pulling the motionless boy along with her.

Buffy had almost made the surface when a grey humanoid face appeared from the gloom, another face appeared and then another. She recognised them from her studies as the Merpeople who inhabited this lake. They must have been drawn by the disturbance, but as they didn't attempt to stop her, she pushed on. A moment later, she hit the lake's surface.

She sucked in great lungfuls of air as she trod water and held the boy against her. There was no sign of the boat. The lake's surface lay still and cloaked in darkness, while high above her, the lit castle continued to glow the night's sky.

Why hadn't someone come to help her?

Her limbs were cold and heavy in the water, and she felt tired from the underwater fight and lack of oxygen. Yet if they were to survive she needed to reach the castle. There was no sign of life in the boy lolling against her but she couldn't give up hope. Still holding onto him, she began to swim for Hogwarts.

She hadn't gotten far when a group of mermen and mermaids broke the surface alongside her. Despite their yellow eyes and sharp teeth, Buffy felt nothing but gentleness and compassion radiating from them when they smiled at her. Tenderly two of them lifted Rigel from her and carried him away, much faster than she could swim, towards a row of lights below the castle. Before she could follow, two of the Merpeople took hold of her arms and half-carried, half-towed her along the surface of the water to a cave at the foot of Hogwarts Castle. There, strong arms reached down from the dock to pull her out the water and up onto dry land.

....

A/N; I hoped you enjoyed the little side adventure. I did say she would make a dramatic entrance ;)

Yep, Grindylows are described as water demons. I couldn't resist adding them to the story when I read that. They do originate from my part of the world and it is believed the Grendal from Beowulf was a Grindylow.

So.... which House do you think the hat will put her in now?

Any mistakes, typos etc, please let me know.

Thank you to those who wrote on the last chapter. That would be all two of you :-((  
To those who read and don't say anything boohoo :


	33. Playing With Dark Magic?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Blacks owe Buffy a thank you and a Slayer wears the Sorting Hat

Once the first years had followed Silvanus Kettleburn out of the station, it was the rest of the students turn to leave the train. Tom stayed at the door he held, letting his thoughts drift as students passed him by.

The boy who'd helped Buffy from the train, Caradoc Dearborn, who was he? How long had they known each other? In his mind's eye, he saw the way Buffy had glowed with happiness as she'd reached out and taken Dearborn's hand. Unknowingly, Tom let out an involuntary hiss in parseltongue that had no real human equivalent but roughly translated as anger, betrayal and loss.

Realising his magic had begun to gather inside him along with the need to hex something, Tom drew in a deep breath and breathed out slowly. Magic tingled along his arm and his hand twitched. Control, he needed control. He couldn't afford to let the little witch's traitorous behaviour set him back. Instead, he turned his thoughts to the new name she went by, Lovegood-Summers. That was a name he hadn't come across during his research on wizarding families, but it had been chosen for a reason. Tom knew there was a British wizarding family called Lovegood. There was one in his year in Ravenclaw, an introverted oddball called Lovell Lovegood. Was Buffy related to him? It didn't seem possible that someone as outgoing and brazenly determined to have her own way could be related to the shy loner he saw occasionally in the corridor.

Buffy had mentioned living in Devon in her letter with an uncle and cousin. Did the Lovegoods live in Devon? Tom wasn't sure, but in the letter there was another telling sentence, one he had no difficulty calling to mind as he'd tried to make sense of it so many times.

“He's invited me to live with him and his son (his wife died a while ago) until Mom gets better. So... new relatives. (I hope that is another yay and they aren't all too weird!)”

Weird. That certainly described Lovell Lovegood. If so, Buffy's ill mother must be Lovell's aunt, and she'd left Britain and the Wizarding world behind to marry a Muggle. Tom snorted softly. It was uncomprehending why anyone would exchange a magical life for a mundane one. At least she'd had the brains to keep her birth name and add it to her husband's in case any of their offspring were magical. No doubt, Buffy would make good use of her mother's connections to ease her way into the British Wizarding world.

Tom was so lost in thought, he didn't notice most of the students had left until Septimus Longbottom, the Head boy, put a hand onto his shoulder.

“You can stand down now, Riddle. Our train duties are over,” Longbottom said with an easy smile.

Fighting not to wrench his shoulder from under the other boy's hand, Tom managed a small nod in acknowledgement. He watched Longbottom walk along the platform, pausing to speak to the few other prefects and students remaining on the platform and noting each affable smile and gesture the Head boy bestowed on them. To do so would grate on Tom's nerves but if he was to achieve his goal of becoming Head Boy in two years, he'd needed to ape the behaviour of other Head boys. If he acted correctly in public view even Dumbledore wouldn't find anything to criticise him for.

He left the station and stood at the top of the walkway, searching each carriage in the long line for his housemates. There was a crowd of students milling around, but he eventually spotted Malfoy's white-blonde hair gleaming in the light of the lanterns. Tom made his way towards him, and Malfoy gave him a cocky grin, slanting a meaningful look at the two pretty Hufflepuff girls he was flattering.

Tom shook his head - not interested. The fifth year was an important year for all students and, with the OWLS exams coming up, he'd no intention of wasting valuable study time chasing skirts with Malfoy. If Malfoy failed his OWLs no doubt his father, who was on the Board Of Governors, would quietly arrange for him to retake them and nothing more would be said. If a penniless orphan failed his exams, he'd be expelled in disgrace.

“I'll leave the field to you,” Tom said quietly as he passed Malfoy to enter the carriage.

“You don't know what your missing, Riddle,” Malfoy muttered out the side of his mouth with a sly look.

Tom snorted, he knew what he was missing, but there were other more important things to spend his time and energy on.

Victor Avery, Tobias Nott, and Taric Mulcibar were already inside the carriage, and Tom greeted each boy before sitting back against the leather seat squabs and falling into silence. The other boys knew him well enough to leave him alone and spoke quietly as the carriages rolled along the twisting lanes. When the carriage reached a certain bend in the lane, Tom leant forward, never tiring of the first moment the magnificent castle came into sight. His magic tingled beneath his skin as the school grew closer. This was the place he'd learned about magic for the past four years, the only place he held any affection for.

The carriage slowed as they crossed the bridge and out on the lake, a group of small lights from the Hogwarts boats bobbed up and down on the currents. They were the Hogwarts boats, sailing the new students to the castle. Tom remembered the sense of awe he'd felt as the magical boat carried him across the lake. Would Buffy feel the same? Would her face light up in wonder at her first glimpse of Hogwarts Castle?

He gave himself a little shake. Why should he care what Buffy thought of Hogwarts? She wasn't a friend. He didn't need or want anything more to do with her.

To drive away any further errant thoughts, he asked his companions, “Did anything exciting happen over the summer?”

He doubted it. From the snatches of the conversation he'd overheard so far, Nott had discussed advances in potion work and Malfoy Quidditch League scores.

On the opposite side of the carriage, Mulcibar spoke first. “Uncle's visited in a flap all summer. One of Grindelwald's most trusted wizards has disappeared. He says even Grindelwald's looking for him. No one knows if Von Kendrick is dead, laying low, or if the Inter-Aurors have captured him.”

The carriage slowed and came to a stop. They waited for the other carriages to discharge their occupants before their carriage crept forward.

“Von Kendrick...” Tom repeated. The name was becoming increasingly familiar. It was the name of the man who'd carried out the attack Buffy had been in. “Malfoy...” he began.

The pink-cheeked Pureblood looked at him warily. “My Lord?”

“Do you have the information I asked for?”

Desperately trying to remember what Tom had asked him for, Malfoy asked tentatively, “Is it about the try-outs for the Slytherin Quidditch Team? I'm thinking of holding them next week.”

“Why would I want to know about the Quidditch team?” Tom hissed. He disliked Quidditch and only pretended an interest to fit in with others and make the right impression with the teachers.

“Um, I'm not sure,” replied Malfoy twitched nervously in his seat. “Do you want to be on the team? I'll give you any position you'd like.”

Tom gave a derisive snort. “I shall leave that honour to worthier players than me. When we were in Diagon Alley, I asked you to find out about the Grindelwald attack in London. Remember?”

“Oh, that!” Malfoy looked relieved. “I got that report from my father's study ages ago. It's in my trunk.”

“Good. I'll want to read it later.”

“How did the Muggle baiting go?” Avery asked suddenly. “Did the girl leave?”

“No, the boggart did,” replied Tom shortly, his thoughts circling back to Buffy once again. Had Buffy used a devious form of magic to rid herself of it? Or had she told him the truth about amnesia? If she had the boggart must have wandered off of its own accord.

Their group entered the castle, Tom walking alongside Malfoy, with Mulcibar and Avery directly behind them, and Nott trailing at the rear. Tom ignored the other students dawdling in the corridors and headed straight for the Great Hall.

“What do you know about Buffy?” Tom asked Malfoy, taking care to keep his voice low and casual. Malfoy had to know the American witch. On platform 9 and 3/4s he'd been all over her like dragon pox rash.

“Buffet? ” Malfoy replied, screwing his face up with confusion at the odd question. “What do you want to know? I've been to several this year. Which one do you need information on? Or are you planning on hosting one?”

Tom regarded him steadily. “The witch Buffy Summers,” he remembered Kettleburn's addition, “Buffy Lovegood-Summers.”

Malfoy looked blank.

“The girl who's trolley almost crashed into the rails in front of the engine. You were talking to her on the platform in London.”

Malfoy shrugged. “Is her name Buffet? What were her parents thinking of, lumbering her with a name like that?”

Tom gazed at Malfoy and allowed a touch of irritation into his expression.

Abraxus Malfoy twitched. “I'd never seen her before. I was just telling Bernard Weasley and the rest of the Gryffindor idiots how we're going to thrash them this year when the Yank came through the barrier, screaming that she couldn't stop. We ran to help her - a tiny thing like that had no chance against the jinxed trolley.”

“If she's American she's probably transferred from Ilvermorny,” Avery added. “I noticed Caradoc Dearborn is here this year too. He went to Durmstrang. I met him and his parents in Paris last year.”

“He's from Grindelwald's school?” Tom thought the boy needed hexing for that fact alone. They taught the Dark Arts there, unlike at Hogwarts where they only studied defence against it. Tom thought the decision not to teach the Dark Arts was a poor one and one he'd rectify immediately if he was headmaster.

He beckoned his knights closer as they entered the Great Hall. “Avery, Mulcibar, find out everything you can about the two new transfer students. I don't like the fact Dearborn is from Durmstrang. I'll call a meeting to discuss what you've discovered in a few days.”

The group made their way to the Slytherin table which was set beneath their House's green and silver banner. Most of the students were already at the tables and the place was buzzed with excited chatter. Tom passed the older Slytherins at the head of the table, the sixth form below them until they reached the section of the table where the fifth years sat. Out of habit, Tom glanced up as he slid into his seat beside Malfoy and Avery. Above him, a thousand candles floated underneath the enchanted ceiling and he noted the overcast sky, with no sign of the moon or stars showing through the thick banking of clouds.

As he was watching the ceiling, Penelope Parkinson leaned across the table and touched his hand. “Have a good summer, Riddle?” she asked and giggled.

Tom pulled his hand away and dropped his head, regarding her from under lidded eyes hiding a gleam of dislike. He'd already seen Dorothea Parkinson, Penelope's sixth form cousin, making cow eyes as he'd walked past her. Now the younger Parkinson demanded his attention.

“Tolerable,” he replied refusing to elaborate. Another summer survived at a Muggle orphanage surrounded by dreary Muggle children and an abusive custodian. Not that he'd tell her any of that. Aware etiquette demanded he'd ask about her summer, he grudgingly did so.

Penelope played with her empty goblet and pouted. “Awful. Mummy and I were supposed to enjoy the summer in France but my father decided against it. He said that with all the Muggle fighting and Grindelwald's dislike of Paris it was too dangerous for us.”

“Bad luck,” replied Tom, disinterestedly. He turned away and glanced over to the head table and the empty chairs where the teachers sat. Headmaster Dippet was already sat in his chair talking to Professor Merrythought, but Dumbledore's chair was empty. That was odd. The Transfiguration professor was always early for the Sorting feast, where was he?

.........

After being pulled from the water, Buffy lay on her back, staring up at Caradoc's anxious face and the darkness above him.

Memories slid through her mind of a candlelit cavern and another teenage boy's worried face hovering over her. Where was Xander? Shouldn't he be here? Had she fought the Master? Was she dead?

“How do you feel?” the golden Apollo asked, bringing her sharply into the present.

“Am I dead?”

“No.”

“Then I'm just peachy,” replied Buffy who felt nothing of the sort. She sat up, her drenched clothes clinging to her body, and pushed away strands of soaking wet hair that fell into her eyes.

They were in a room hewn from rock, the boats they'd sailed in were tied up at a dock and, over on the other side of the cavern, the rest of the first-year students waited by a flight of stone steps. Some of those first years stared at her, others watched something or someone behind Caradoc.  
“How's Rigel, is he...?” She let the question hang, not wanting to finish it in case she jinxed him.

Caradoc didn't reply, he stepped to one side. Rigel lay a short distance away with his eyes closed and face tinged with blue. Dumbledore lifted the boy's shoulders, cradling him in his arms as a nurse poured drops of silver liquid into Rigel's mouth. The drops had barely touched his tongue before Rigel's eyes opened and he lurched forward. Dumbledore held on to his shoulders as the boy coughed, retched, and threw up a mixture of lake water and his last meal.

The sour smell of vomit reached Buffy's nose. She swallowed and tried not to gag.

“She must have used a Revive and Invigorate potion,” Caradoc murmured. “A very strong one. Rigel was in a bad way when we pulled him from the water. Luckily, when you didn't return with the rest of the boats, Kettleburn cast a Patronus to alert Professor Dumbledore and Madam Bones. If he hadn't he might not have made it.”

A Patronus? Buffy wondered what kind of spell that was and decided to look it up. She watched as the nurse perform a long series of complicated movements with her wand. A series of golden runes appeared in the air over a coughing Rigel. Buffy recognised the runes for heart, air and blood, but they faded long before she could make sense of them.

Whatever it was the healer had read in them appeared to please her. She spoke quietly to Dumbledore, who in turn looked relieved.

“They look hopeful,” began Caradoc slowly, “I think that-.”

“How yer feelin'?” Kettleburn interrupted. He'd brought over Buffy's belongings that she'd left in the boat. “Yer, not gonna be sick, are yer? You look peaky.”

“I'm fine.” Buffy reassured him, guessing from the way her hair was plastered to her head and her clothing dripped that she looked a mess. “I didn't swallow any lake water,” she went on, “so no projectile vomiting from me. You're all safe from the flying Buffy spew.”

She must have spoken too loudly, Madam Bones she stopped fussing around Rigel and looked up, her eyes narrowing speculatively on Buffy.

Buffy's eyes widened. “Oh, no... No way.” She recognised that look. It was the one medics gave her before inviting her to an overnight stay in hospital along with a few series of needle insertions. Deciding that wasn't going to happen, Buffy rose, soggily, to her feet and pasted on a perky smile. With luck, the nurse would find an easier victim to practise her needlework skills on.

Surprisingly though, it wasn't the nurse who came over it was Dumbledore. The bearded wizard regarded her with a gleam of amusement in his eyes. “Miss Summers, you have a propensity for taking people by surprise. I shouldn't have expected anything less from you than a dramatic entrance.”

Buffy shivered and gave him a dark look. Did he think half drowning was amusing? Dramatic entrance? She looked a total mess and water was pouring off her in rivulets. A sarcastic reply sprang to her tongue, but she bit it back and asked, instead, “How's Rigel?”

That question killed the amusement in his eyes. “Ah, the poor boy has had a nasty shock...”

A total understatement thought Buffy. He'd almost been drowned by lake demons.

“Thankfully,” continued Dumbledore, “Madam Bones says she's confident that after a stay in our hospital wing he'll make a full recovery. She wants you to come along too.”

“I'm fine... I don't -,” began Buffy, her teeth letting her down by chattering.

“You'll do as yer told, young Miss!” barked Kettleburn. “I can see Grindylow bites on yer arms! I told yer before we set off. I said, 'no messin' about'. Look what happens as soon as I turn around! Two of yer almost drownin' an' bein' eaten in the lake.”

“I wasn't... fooling around!” Buffy protested, wishing her teeth would stop chattering. Why was it so cold? Was Scotland always like this? “Rigel fell overboard and I dived in to help him! I don't want to go to the hospital for a few demon bites.”

Dumbledore drew his wand and pointed at her. Buffy eyed it warily. Didn't he believe she'd rescued Rigel? Or was he simply going to march her at wandpoint to the hospital wing?

“A drying and warming spell will help you, Miss Summers. If I may?” Dumbledore asked. At her nod, he used abbreviated wand movements and cast a spell on her. “I'm surprised you haven't already used them,” he admonished gently. “I taught all about Ventus and Tergeo charms this summer.”

Buffy bit her lip. “Um, yeah. I forgot about magic and being a witch,” she replied truthfully. She lowered her eyes, striving to act the part of a shy yet eager magic student, but not quite willing to meet Dumbledore's eyes whilst she did it.

“Is it okay if I go to the hospital later?” she asked. “I don't want to miss wearing the magical hat and finding out my House. Isn't that more important than a few scratches? It's not as if I'll die if I put it off until after the Sorting.”

Maybe she wouldn't go to the infirmary at all. She could sneak away, find the owlery, and send a message to her Mom warning her about Von Kendrick. Thanks to her spill in the lake, the letter she'd written was now a soggy mess in the bottom of her robe pocket and she'd need to write a new one.

Buffy risked a glance up at Dumbledore, who watched her with an unreadable expression. “I could go after the hat has sorted me into my House and I've met the other students? I don't want to miss out...” Buffy brazenly met the wizards all-too-knowing blue eyes and added, “I might be lucky enough to become a Gryffindor - like you.”

“Hmmph,” Dumbledore didn't look at all convinced by her acting. However, Buffy took it as a small victory when he added, “I shall ask Walburga Black to escort you to the Infirmary once the feast is over. I believe the Black family owe you a big thank you for saving the life of one of their own.”

........

The black-haired Professor McGonagall hurried the new students past the main staircase to a set of double doors, calling, “Come along now, we're running dreadfully late!”

At the rear of the group, Buffy and Caradoc watched with fascination as doors swung open to reveal the Hogwart's Great Hall. Inside the beamed and cavernous space, students sat on each side of the four long tables, empty plates and dishes set before them. As Minerva McGonagall walked along the central aisle, in between two sets of tables, Buffy followed the other students at the same time trying to spot her cousin's face amongst the sea of faces.

She was so busy focussing on the Ravenclaw table that when the trio of students in front of her stopped with a loud shriek, Caradoc grabbed Buffy to stop her from barrelling into them. The pearly-white ghost of a Tudor lady hovered directly in front of the three first years.

Caradoc gave Buffy a sidelong look and then nodded towards the ceiling. “Look up there. That's far more interesting than the castle ghosts.”

Buffy didn't think it could be more interesting than the ghosts, but she obediently looked upwards. For a moment, Buffy thought the hall was roofless, for the bewitched ceiling showed the night sky currently over the castle. It looked as if it might rain later.

The magical ceiling was definitely cool, but it was the thousands of lighted candles that held her attention. She leaned closer to Caradoc and whispered, “I hope none of the candle wax drops onto our heads.”

Caradoc's face lit up with a smile. “I believe they're charmed not to drip, otherwise they'd have a lot of scalded pupils complaining at mealtimes.”

“That would make the nurse happy.” The visit to Hogwarts hospital wing was still on Buffy's mind.

“Ahem,” Professor McGonagall glared over the top of the first-years at the two of them. Once she had silence, she placed a four-legged stool onto the floor in front of the teacher's table. Then took a weather-beaten wizard's hat from the top table and placed it onto the stool.

Everyone stared at the dirty hat, including the teachers sat at the high table. Buffy scanned their faces. The old, bearded guy in the big chair must be the Headmaster, on one side of him sat Dumbledore and on the other an elderly witch with a heavily lined face. Of the other teachers, only a woman draped in colourful shawls, a man that looked like a beardless dwarf, and a fat, balding man in a brown suit stood out to Buffy.

The dirty battered hat twitched, pulling Buffy's attention from the teachers. She narrowed her eyes as a tingle of warning ran along her spine. Her inner Slaydar didn't like that hat. It wasn't demonic, but the hat reeked of old wizards and very strong, intrusive magic. It probably also reeked of thousands of kid's heads which Buffy didn't want to think about since she had to wear it.

The point on the hat twitched again, and this time a tear near the brim opened up to form a mouth.

“Oh you may not think me pretty,  
but there's no finer hat than me...” sang the hat.

Buffy snorted softly, and next to her Caradoc grinned. The hat sang merrily until it finished the first verse with the words,

“...And there’s nothing hidden in your head  
The Sorting Hat can’t see.”

Crap, thought Buffy. That wasn't what she wanted to hear. That old, mangey hat was going to rifle through all her memories.

“...You might belong in Gryffindor,  
Where dwell the brave of heart,  
Their daring, nerve, and chivalry,  
Does set Gryffindors apart...”

Buffy looked up to Dumbledore. Underneath the brim of his wizard's hat his eyes gleamed. 'And that's a big no from Buffy,' she thought mutinously. 'Not with Dumbledore hovering over her.'

“...Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,  
if you’ve a ready mind,  
Where those of wit and learning,  
Will always find their kind...”

Was she witty and clever? She wasn't sure. Buffy wondered if the hat would make an exception and go for plain snark-girl instead.

“..Or perhaps in Slytherin  
You’ll make your real friends,  
Those pure-blood folks use cunning means  
To achieve their ambitious ends.”

Slytherin was Tom Riddle and Marcus Lestrange's house. Buffy wondered if they were watching the Sorting and wondering where she'd be placed.

“...Now slip me snug about your ears,  
I’ve never yet been wrong,  
I’ll take a look inside your mind  
And tell where you belong!”

The students and staff applauded the hat, and then the applause died away as Professor McGonagall took a scroll from the high table and read out the first name.

“Anders, Mona”

Buffy watched the wide-eyed, trembling pupil take a seat on the stool, and Professor McGonagall gently placed the hat onto the girl's head. It dropped all the way down onto the bridge of her nose, covering the girl's eyes.

“Gryffindor!” yelled the hat immediately.

From the table on the far side of the hall, a cheer went up. Mona Anders grinned in relief and ran to the table on Buffy's right. Buffy noticed the girl's tie had changed from plain black to Gryffindor red and gold.

Next on the stool was a boy who the hat sorted into Slytherin. He swaggered across to the table cheering him on the opposite side of the hall to Gryffindor.

“Dearborn, Caradoc,” called Professor McGonagall.

“Good luck,” Buffy whispered.

Caradoc sat down on the stool, looking very large on there compared to the first years. This time the hat didn't slip so far down over his nose and it also seemed to take the hat a lot longer to decide.

“Gryffindor!” yelled the hat.

Over at the far side of the hall, the Gryffindor table let out a very loud cheer. It was obvious that Caradoc was going to be popular over there.

Other kids were called to the hat, and Buffy bored and, resigned to a long wait, filled the time by watching the ghosts float around the hall.

“Leatherbarrow, John,” called Professor McGonagall.

Buffy's senses tingled as something materialised in the hall above her. She looked up, and saw a being that was not quite a ghost and not quite alive floating amongst the candles. It bore the likeness of a tiny man and wore a jester's cap. Whatever it was, it felt different to her Slaydar than the other ghosts, it almost like her boggart and her senses told her to be cautious.

“Lovegood-Summers, Buffy!” snapped Professor McGonagall. She pointed at Buffy. “Isn't that you?”

“Huh?”

There was a titter of laughter from around her and Buffy's cheeks flushed. Professor McGonagall must have already called her name but she'd been concentrating on the not-a-ghost and hadn't heard her. Buffy pouted. For some reason, they were calling her Lovegood-Summers instead of Summers and she hadn't expected to be called yet.

Feeling a little self-conscious, but lifting her chin defiantly, she took a seat on the stool and closed her eyes. The hat slid down over her head.

“Hmm,” said a small voice in her ear.

“Are you the hat?” Buffy asked.

“Who else did you expect? A bee? You don't have to speak aloud, you know. I can hear all your thoughts.”

Buffy waited, feeling the hat pushing its way deeper into her mind.

“I didn't anticipate that.”

Buffy kept very still, hardly daring to breathe. Had it seen the memories of her illegal vampire killings? No! She mustn't think about slaying! Maybe she should just think about her Hogwarts textbooks so that it thought she was studious and put her in Ravenclaw.

“I AM VERY CLEVER,” she intoned slowly and clearly so the hat got the mental message. She also flashed a mental image of Hogwarts, A History at it. “I need to go into-”

“Two sets of memories,” mumbled the hat. “I've not seen that before.”

“What? What do you mean I've two sets of memories?”

“Someone's been playing with dark magic,” the hat continued.

“No, I haven't! I didn't even know how to turn the light on until last month!”

“And the result is we have a Slayer again,” continued the hat, ignoring her comments. “Now, what House shall I put you in? So brave, willing to sacrifice yourself for others...”

“How did you know I'm a -.” Buffy yelped. “No! NOT a Gryffindor.”

“Not a Gryffindor?”

“I don't want to be a Gryffindor. Ravenclaw is the House for me. Put me in Ravenclaw.”

“Makes friends easily, charms, and inspires great loyalty in others.”

“Look, save yourself the bother. I'm not a Hufflepuff. Put me in Ravenclaw.”

“Cunning, resourceful, and willing to use any means to achieve her goals.”

“Hey, what about smart! I'm clever and willing to learn! I've read all the books! Advanced Arithmancy! Runework for the Expert! Divining the Future For those With...er, Superior Skills! Defence Against the Dark -.”

“SLYTHERIN!” yelled the hat.

Buffy didn't move. “You'd better change your mind,” she hissed. “Or I'm coming back for you.”

But the hat remained silent and Professor McGonagall whipped it from her head. “Go on now, you're new housemates are all cheering for you.”

…......

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all who have made comments on this story.
> 
> I wasn't sure if the Tom section worked. I considered deleting it but a friend said keep it in.
> 
> If you want to hear more of Tom's pov shout out!
> 
> So Buffy tried to manipulate the hat and got more than she bargained for. The hat gave her a few clues there,. We will meet the hat again


End file.
